LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Songs for the Hour. 



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PHILADELPHIA : 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 

1S93. 



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Copyright, 1893, 

BY 

D. M. Jones. 



Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia. 



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TO 
MY LITTLE DAUGHTER. 



Wee, golden-haired dreamer who knocks at my door 

With bright bits of fancy and Fairy-land news, 
And now on your birthday, rejoicing at Four, 

With a four-leafed clover, to gladden my Muse ! 
Sweet enchantments of home ! whose fairy and elf 

Lend their luck to the singer, and live in his songs ! 
The Queen of my fays is your fond little self, 

For now to the youngest the sceptre belongs. 
Then come to my garden and smile on its flowers. 

And find that beforehand I wove you a crown 
To wear on your birthdays, and brighten their hours, 

RecuUing the roses they once rained down ! 



OOl^TEI^TS. 



PAGB 

gwilym gwent 7 

The Celtic Alliance 13 

John Boyle O'Reilly 21 

The Flag of the Starry Eyes 26 

The Harp of O'Carolan 32 

The Light of Liberty 36 

Erin's Sweet Dream 39 

Between the Sowing and the Reaping 47 

Light-Hearted 49 

The Lover's Ideal 51 

One of Longfellow's Letters 53 

Fair Wyoming 56 

To Erin 63 

Our Golden Stairs 65 

The Lights that Mock Us 69 

Come in My Dreams 70 

The Cyclone 72 

Ireland and Her Martyrs 85 

Deserting the Flag of the Starry Eyes 90 

Sainted at Seven 96 

The Hundred and Forty-Third 98 

Sheridan , 114 

The Last of the Three 118 

When Death had lost the Day 120 

I* 5 



6 Contents. 

I'AGB 

The Roses of Rapture and Rest 123 

The Beautiful Dead 126 

My Pretty Boy 130 

His First Fire-Cracker 131 

What Ails the Gael? 134 

Laughter and Tears 137 

" Reddy," the River Hero ... 139 

The Penny ... 143 

Salt-Water Song 146 

The Judge and the Referee 149 

The Demand for Mr. Depew 153 

" Lethe, and other Poems, 1882" 154 

Some of Wyoming's Singers 158 

The Robin's Laugh 162 

A Fine Day 165 

The Holy Child 169 

Memorial Ode 173 

The Vanished Maiden 182 

God and the Sea 184 

At Garfield's Grave 188 

Love's Wounds 190 

Buried Love's Epitaph 192 

The Rich and the Suffering 194 

Henry W. Longfellow 196 

The Vision of Columbus 201 



GWILYM GWENT. 

THE COLLIER MUSICAL COMPOSER. 

(Gwilym Gwent, the Welsh-American bard, was a household 
word to every Cymro living, owing to the great popularity of his 
inspiring musical compositions, which have swayed the Welsh 
world for the past thirty years. He died suddenly on July 4, 
1891, and was buried at the HoUenback Cemetery, Wilkesbarre, 
Pennsylvania, where his friends and fellow-countrymen intend 
erecting a monument to his memory.) 

A TOILER awakened by voices divine, 

A melodist sweet, too swart of the mine, 

And the chivalrous strife it inspires, 
To forget in the glow of his song-breathing 

soul 
The joys and the griefs of a cutter of coal, 

And his Motherland's emulous choirs ! 

Of blithe English rhythm he seldom lost sight ; 
But near the Welsh fountains of Bardic delight 
His music was more at its ease 



8 Sotigs for the Hour. 

When it merrily fifed for the soldiers of Toil, 
Or unveiled the bright vistas of Beauty's own 
soil, 
When they echoed his star-lighted glees. 

But wedded for aye to the rich Cymric tongue 
Is his glee that the glories of Summer had sung, 

While it mirrored the smile of the morn, 
Ere Ocean inspired the impassioned farewell 
Of his harp to its home, under Liberty's spell, 

And the love-ties wherefrom it was torn, — 

Its roof-tree that rivalled the cuckoo's retreat, 
The Eisteddfod, in which he was wont to com- 
pete. 
Like the harpers and minstrels of old. 
With his musical gems for the glittering prize, 
Till they gleamed with the splendor of Cam- 
bria's skies. 
And the tale her grand symphonies told! 



Gwilym Gwent. 9 

But his lyre, grown golden 'neath Liberty's 

dome, 
More readily made fair Columbia its home, 

Since the song of the winds was the same 
(Save jubilant chorus and conquering sweep) 
Its Celtic strings caught from the voice of the 
deep, 
And the tongue that no tyrant could tame ! 

In the Arcady fairer than fancy had dreamed, 
The meed of his music, the medals he deemed 

More precious than silver and gold. 
Till the truth stared out of his toil-trampled 

ways 
And song-waking wilds, that the mintage of 
praise 
Is worthless in hunger and cold. 

When his heart was aweary of hammer and drill, 
And melody rock-bound, with never a rill, 



lo Songs for the Hour, 

And fancy, with never a flower, — 
When his longings divine were at war with his 

lot, 
In Nature's glad anthems his gloom was forgot. 

Or poesy's soul-tuning power. 

At work in the shadows disaster had spread, 
In the death that is swift, and the sleep that is 
dread 
With the flame-swept mine in its thrall! 
The music that comforts he caught from the 

gloom 
That had trembled so oft with the dirges of 
doom 
And Rescue's woe-fathoming call ! 

But grander the music he heard overhead ! 
And chalked by the light his mine-lamp shed, 

In a trance on his uncut coal, 
And traced on the mine door he tended at last, 



Gwilym Gwent. ii 

When he seized, by the gates of a Hymn- 
glorious Past, 
The harp that still suited his soul ! 

Culture's charmed circle too shy to come near 
A toiler as tuneful of soul and of ear, 

As if idolized all his life long; 
Too content with his sphere ? yet true as a star 
To the key-notes of Nature, though singing so 
far 

From the centre of light and of song ! 

But a light has gone out in the Nottingham 

mine, 
In Wyoming, a lamp that will nevermore shine 

Through the ripples of laughter and tears 
That mingle in melody's beautiful tide; 
The toiler has vanished who dreamed by its 
side. 
Entranced with the Song of the Spheres ! 



1 2 So7tgs for the Hour. 

And Music, his true love, leads the vast throng 
Who follow his hearse with victorious song, 

In his mother-tongue tearfully sweet, 
That gives, as his anthems reverently gave. 
The glory to God, when it bursts o'er the 
grave 

Where Beauty and Melody meet! 



THE CELTIC ALLIANCE. 

Long live the Race Alliance grand in Free- 
dom's battle formed, 

When side by side the Celtic Three the heights 
of Home Rule stormed ; 

When gallant Gael the glances kind of Scot 
and Welshman cheered, 

And the ancient race-love of the Celt in splen- 
dor reappeared. 

Promise of Hope's fair angel ! From the mo- 
ment of thy birth 

A. strange enchantment swept the seas and 
glorified the earth. 

And this unmatched Alliance means the Celt 
the world around. 

Then is it strange such rapture rose from that 
far battle-ground ? 

2 13 



14 Songs for the Hour. 

After the battle, like the skies with all their 

stars restored, 
Free souls, a countless host, smiled on your 

cause with one accord ! 
Men vied with men in Erin's aid, proud Celts 

from sea to sea, 
And Erin's foes began to ask why she should 

not be free. 

O deathless League, whose smiling cheer sore 

chafed the victor's soul, 
And made them seem the conquerors who 

came so near the goal. 
Your love and courage still remain, though 

shadows gloom the day, 
Not yet so dark from dauntless Celt can chase 

the smile away. 

Not yet so dark they may bedim that match- 
less Saxon's smile, 



Tlie Celtic Alliafice. 15 

The England of the masses moves to aid the 
Emerald Isle, 

The Grand Old Man of Celt-like soul this 
league of love inspired 

That sprang to being at a bound when Free- 
dom's cause required. 

While he the Gaelic column leads, vi^hose quiet 

word means more 
Than all the sway and grandeur of the Irish 

kings of yore ; 
His force intense, so self-contained, the face 

unchanged as fate, 
Discerns fair Freedom in the dark, her hand 

on Erin's gate. 

Right merrily, resistless League, your ranks 

again ye form. 
Stern inch by inch to hold the ground, or take 

the field by storm, 



1 6 Songs for the Hour, 

While gallant Gael the gleefulness of Scot and 

Cambrian cheers, 
And the ancient race-love of the Celt more 

splendid still appears. 

The Thistle pricks Oppression's sides, the Leek 

is lit with smiles, 
To greet the Shamrock growing wild o'er all 

the British Isles, 
Where Celtic harps in chorus grand the tyrant's 

dreams disturb ; 
And now 'tis Erin's Saxon friends he strives in 

vain to curb. 

While Cheshire's freedom-kindled flame with 

Glasgow's glory blends. 
Your Saxon allies' footsteps sound, — fair Erin's 

Enghsh friends. 
Their swelling numbers moved and swayed by 

Truth's majestic might, — 



The Celtic Alliance. ly 

The storm, a hand-breadth at the first, that 
smites the brow of Night. 

Tn vain the foe the Gael proclaims, — the tide he 

cannot stay; 
The outlawed Celt in your embrace grows 

dearer every day ; 
But when the Saxon joins the Gael, and courts 

the self-same ban, 
Behold ! A still more glorious league, — the 

Brotherhood of Man ! 

What friends of freedom are not proud to lend 

Old Ireland aid. 
Who see what soul on Irish soil her children 

have displayed ! 
The heart for home all things endures till heart 

alone is left, — 
The heart, still cleaving to the Right, of all its 

rights bereft ! 



1 8 Songs for the Hour. 

Resistless Erin, conquering first thy friends and 
next thy foes, 

No outlawry can reach the arm the world 
around thee throws ; 

And never worthier seemed thy sons of free- 
dom's sacred trust. 

As with proud scorn they face the false accusers 
of the just. 

In the bright blaze of Celtic fire forth-flashing 

for the Right, 
The deathless Gaelic diamond emits a brighter 

light. 
While tremble in the softer rays of its unsullied 

sheen 
The fondest tears for Freedom shed the world 

has ever seen. 

With Erin's songs by thousands sung outside 
the palace door, 



The Celtic Alliaiice. 19 

And three crossed swords athwart his dreams, 

the tyrant's heart is sore. 
Now lo ! his own, nay, England's sword, the 

burnished sword of Right, 
Discarded long, has joined the Three, and leads 

them in the fight. 

What though the foe in fury charge, more des- 
perate than of yore. 

Now let the battle-square be formed, for Erin's 
- friends are four. 

The England of the masses wakes, — the fight 
ye needs must win, 

Defensive here, aggressive there, to hem the 
tyrant in. 

While Cheshire's sacred firebrand the flame 

still farther sends. 
The England of the masses comes! Fair Erin's 

English friends. 



20 Songs for the Hour. 

The Grand Old Man still grander seems. Im- 
prisoned Erin thrills, 

While Home Rule, like the cannon's boom, 
shakes old Britannia's hills. 

September 2, 1887. 



JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 

From the hope forlorn that he led in his 
youth, 

There flowered in Liberty's light, 
And the heavenly flash of the sword of truth 

That he handled for God and Right, 
The legions of Liberty's grandest crusade, 

Where her standard was first unfurled ! 
And if Freedom must fall where her Charter 
was made, 

What hope for the rest of the world ? 

O heart, whose revenge for the wrongs of the 
past 
Was the love of his fellow-men ; 
The heights that he reached where his lot was 
cast, 
And the weapons he wielded then ! 



22 Songs for the Hour. 

Columbia's fond looks for the Emerald Strand, 
Whose love-knot his own love had tied ; 

Home Rule's larger army he came to com- 
mand, 
And her ships on the waters wide ! 

But this was the key to his kindly heart, — 

The crown of his Celtic soul, — 
That He prized not his land or his race apart 

From humanity as a whole. 
Yet his love for a land was truer than theirs 

Whose affection is fixed on their own; . 
As the myriads of friends that he made un- 
awares 

Imagined he loved them alone ! 

His helping hand was an angel's wing, 

A giver who gave from choice — 
Oh ! here was a heart an anthem to sing, 

The spiritual strength and voice ! 



John Boyle O'Reilly. '23 

He pictured the crown in the workmen's tears, 
When their teacher was taken away ; 

And he filled his place through the busy years, 
And they wept on his burial-day. 

When his bow for the brave Crispus Attucks 
he drew. 
With the love of humanity strung, 
To the key-note that fell from the shafts as 
they flew. 
Was a song for the centuries sung ! 
And the song was a sword, for the Right 
withheld, 
Purpling Oppression's shield ; 
To his fairest true, like the knights of eld. 
Wherever the foe or field ! 

With a vision broad as the years to be. 
And as reverent of Liberty's shrine 

As the Pilgrims who wandered from sea to sea 
In search of the treasure divine : 



24 Songs for the Hour. 

From their garlanded glory he cast the dead 
flower, 

With fadeless ones filling its place ; 
And sounding the note of our national power, 

Sang the hope of the human race ! 

Great of soul and of mind, and glorious of 
mien 

When he smiled in the leader's place ; 
In the shadows, sweet Pity's diviner sheen 

Endearing his patient face. 
Thrice-conquered grave ! where the life-shadow 
falls, 

And love is the sheltering tree ; 
Harp, sword, and cross, — his coronals, — 

And flowers from both sides the sea ! 



Flowers from a thousand valleys fair. 
Borne thither on sorrow's tide; 



John Boyle O'Reilly. 25 

And the shamrock from over the sea is there, 

And the soldier is satisfied. 
But his deeds still live, and will live more and 
more, 

Be fruitful and multiply; 
For his like shall be seen on every shore; 

For God will not let him die ! 

October 10, 1890. 



THE FLAG OF THE STARRY 
EYES. 

(Read before the Conyngham Post, G. A. R., in Music Hall, 
Wilkesbarre, Decoration Day, 1890.) 

The Flag that smiles, like the morning star, 

In Liberty's rosy gleam. 
And nobly fulfilled, on the night of War, 

Her defenders' fondest dream ! 
Her mingling rays but the ripples are 

Of an in-rolling sea of light, — 
Grander afloat in the blue afar 

Than she was in the soldiers' sight! 
To be deemed forever diviner yet, 

In the peace of expanding skies. 

In the pomp of a sun that shall never set. 

And the sweep of her starry eyes ! 
26 



The Flag of the Starry Eyes. 27 

She has comforted them who moaned in the 
night, 

Their rivers of blood beside; 
And her smiles were the stars that fought in 
the fight 

Which Freedom has glorified. 
There is no sorrow she has not seen, 

No night to her gaze unknown ; 
And thus she has made, 'neath her smiling 
mien, 

The griefs of the world her own. 
Outriding the storm on her radiant wings. 

And the shafts of the warring skies, — 
'Tis a fadeless rainbow that Liberty flings 

'Neath the Flag of the Starry Eyes ! 

The colors we fly but the shadows are 

Of a Flag that is never furled ! 
The reflected rays of the morning star 

That is watched by a waiting world ! 



28 Songs for the Hour. 

The beautiful herald, with glowing brow, 

Of sunbeams that never despond, — 
Of a sun that, climbing its zenith now, 

Smites the darkness that lies beyond, — 
The midnight dense or the misty deep. 

Where the dew of the morning lies, 
Or where men dream, in a troubled sleep, 

Of the Flag of the Starry Eyes! 



The ocean-path were a weary way. 

And the sea a songless wild, 
If the Flag of the Free, like the break of day," 

On its billows had never smiled ! 
There is no triumph she has not won. 

Worthy the brave to win ; 
No gate-way of glory under the sun 

That she shall not enter in ! 
Foremost to follow the Light above. 

The grandest banner that flies — 



The Flag of the Starry Eyes. 29 

In the regions of conquest or realms of love — 
Is the Flag of the Starry Eyes ! 

She has led the brave, who were hers and ours, 

Through the rugged ways of War, 
To the soldiers' realm of unfading flowers. 

Where she is the morning star! 
Where the rosy shadows her folds let fall 

Outrival the gifts of May, 
And the garlands we bring at the bugle-call 

For the dead who are hers for aye ! 
When its river of tears has emerged from the 
gloom. 

And the last fond murmur dies, — 
Lo ! the river of fame, with its banks a-bloom, 

And the love of her starry eyes. 

She has won her way through the rayless pall 

Of a valor that vied with ours ; 
3* 



30 So7igs for the Hour. 

With the kiss of forgiveness for one and all, 

Where Glory had scattered flowers; 
Where the living have pledged her the death- 
less fame 

Of the dead whom they still adore, 
Henceforth to be freemen in more than name, 

And to love her for evermore. 
And which is the greater, their love who lost. 

Or ours, where the victory lies? 
'Tis enough both belong, whatever the cost. 

To the Flag of the Starry Eyes ! 

Hers was the gaze of the soldier and seer. 

And the Truth it was grand to defend; 
The vow, and the vision divinely clear, 

That the Union shall never end. 
Reflecting the wisdom we all revere, 

And the glory to come in the end. 
Hers was the glance of the soldier and seer, 

In the face of humanity's friend ! 



The Flag of the Starry Eyes. 31 

In the freedman's faith and the love of the 
free 

The proof of her greatness lies, — 
Humanity's friend, on land and sea. 

Is the Flag of the Starry Eyes ! 



THE HARP OF O'CAROLAN. 
I. 

THE WELCOME, 

Forth of a silence weird and olden, 
But for her tears had been all golden, 

Whose cup of sorrow overran ; 
Tuned to the heart-beats of her bosom, 
Who, smiling, sees her hopes in blossom, 
They bring the Harp of O'Carolan 
And they sing us the songs of O'Carolan ! 

Taken from Sorrow's weeping willows. 
To catch the spray of briny billows, 

Those tears of joy space scarce can span; 
Wakened by sea-winds westward blowing. 
Till all thy golden chords are glowing 

With the heart and soul of O'Carolan, — 

Thrice welcome. Harp of O'Carolan ! 
32 



The Harp of O'Carolan. 33 

Kissed by the sunburst round thee clinging, 

Proud of the shamrock, with it bringing 
Hope for the universal man. 

Come, Harp of Innisfail, the fearless, 

And fill the eyelids of- the tearless 

With the righteous wrath of O'Carolan, — 
With the joyous tears of O'Carolan ! 

In the New World's harbor kindly greeted. 
Where Music's soul is never cheated 

Of one sweet charm by blight or ban ; 
Thrilled with the strange and strong emotion 
That sways the soul this side the ocean. 
Thrice welcome, Harp of O'Carolan, — 
The songs and the soul of O'Carolan ! 

n. 

THE FAREWELL. 

Farewell, brave Harp, to her returning 
For whom unnumbered hearts are yearning. 
Whose cup of joy too soon o'erran; 



34 Songs for the Hour. 

Oh ! if there be the least despairing 
Or drooping in her glance or bearing, 
Comfort her, Harp of O'Carolan, — 
Kindle her courage, O'Carolan! 

Lift up thy voice so lark-like loud, 

So clear, despite the passing cloud, 
A friendly sky she still may scan; 

And, looking up, cease not to see 

The golden sun of Liberty, 

That kindled the soul of O'Carolan, — 
The songs and the Harp of O'Carolan ! 

.Harp of the brave, on Freedom's height 

We heard, with hers attuned aright! 
Refuse the fires of hate to fan; 

But be a fountain, cool and sweet, 

Amid the conflict's torrid heat, 

For thou art the Harp of O'Carolan, 
And the song is the song of O'Carolan! 



The Harp of O'Carolan. 35 

Lest her songs be sung by slavish rote, 

The passion native to thy note 

Lose not, echoed from clan to clan ! 

Be strains like thine the heavenly vent 

And healing of her discontent; 

While calm-voiced Patience steadies the van 
Of her conquering cohorts, O'Carolan ! 

July 23, 1885. 



THE LIGHT OF LIBERTY. 

All lights which were good in the eyes of the 
Lord, 
All lights that are sweet to the children of 
Eve, 
Converge in her candle, whence issues a sword 
That flames without favor, and smites without 
leave ! 
And whether the wound be a smile or a tear, 

The truth disenthralled, or a lie laid bare, 
We welcome her woundings, and hold doubly 
dear 
The Hand that is fearless, the Face that is 
fair! 

Her sword is the sunshine ineffably bright, 
That kissed, as akin, the keen swords of our 

sires, 

■ 36 



The Light of Liberty. 37 

When the cry in their clanging was, " Let 
there be Light !" 
And the flash of their blades coaxed her 
flickering fires. 
'Tis the sword she presented her peerless de- 
fenders 
Who had come to befriend her from over the 
sea — 
How her lamp has been burnished ! And ah ! 
with what splendors 
Its flame has been fed by the love of the free ! 

Freedom, whose lamp is half love and half light, 
Yet not the least wanting in either of these, 
So thy beauty blaze full on the world's ravished 
sight, 
Turn the light that is love t'ward the sorrow- 
ing seas ! 
More hopeful their grief, and the storm's thrill- 
ing story, 



38 Songs for the Hour. 

Than the silence that mocks, and the mirage 

that creeps. 
Smite, rays that are sword-like, reflecting her 

glory. 
The dim lands beyond, where the love of her 

sleeps ! 

All lights which are good in the eyes of the Lord,. 
All lights that are kind to the children of* Eve, 
Converge in her candle, whence issues the 
sword 
Which smites without anger, and flames with- 
out leave ! 
And whether the world she enlightens is 
wounded. 
Or the Darkness of Eld that would hold her 
in thrall. 
The joy of the one, as she heals, is unbounded. 
And the shame of the other foreshadows his 
fall. ■ 



ERIN'S SWEET DREAM. 

Free skies shall yet cover her, — never despair ! 

Lo ! the tear-bursts that fall on both sides 
the sea! 
Free highways, free byways, for Erin, the Fair! 

Fear not for your fairy-land, Erin, the Free ! 

O Erin, the fair, whose fond heart were forlorn 

If bereft the sweet dream of Erin, the Free ! 

Sad mother ! of thee are the merriest born. 

And the eyes all agleam with thy glory to 

be! 

All aglow with that dream with its rest and 

unrest, 

As real as the wrongs of the Emerald Isle. 

Fair dreamer ! sad mother ! thy dream has 

been blest, — 

The tear owns its magic as well as the smile. 

39 



40 Songs for the Hour. 

'Tis more than a dream, as the morning is 
more, 
When her weeping is all she may share with 
the night. • 
'Tis a waking to find the one friend at the 
door. 
Whose presence, in slumber, had gladdened 
the sight. 



Bright dream ! on whose face fell the last 
blushing ray 
Of the sunset of freedom on Erin's fair shore," 
Like the lone evening star in the footprints of 
day, 
It gleaned of the sunlight entrancing of yore, 
'Mid the mists and the purple that mantled her 
skies. 
Through the cloud-racks, that rose with the 
turbulent years. 



Erin's Sweet Dream. 41 

Down that splendid expanse where her chief 
glory lies, 
Till it sounded the depths of the river of 
tears ; 
Where its silvery shadow was studied betimes 
By the king and his nobles, its beauty that 
praised, 
But were wroth when they fancied 'twas Lib- 
erty's chimes 
Pealed over the tides as they brightened and 
blazed ! 



But ah ! 'neath the frown and the frenzy of 
• wrong, 
And the tempests of terror that tyranny 
brewed, 
It passed into proverb, and burst into song. 
That the proud soul of Erin could not be 
subdued ! 



42 Songs for the Hour. 

When hope feebly throbbed in the gathering 
gloom, 
The longing that kindled that vision so fair 
Kept the hearth-stone ablaze and the hill-side in 
bloom, 
That a glimpse of her Free Land might still 
glitter there : — 
Wrote her legends of blood and heart-rending 
doom 
O'er the dust of the martyr, in memory 
deep. 
That the Sunburst of Erin may find out his 
tomb, 
The firebrands of freedom illumine his sleep ! 

Oh, deathless desire ! unquenchable dream ! 

Love of liberty, shining in Liberty's stead ! 
The star of the eve in the morning shall gleam, 

When the pomp of oppression has faded and 
fled. 



Erin's Sweet Dream. 43 

When the hopes that deceive her, the lights 
that misled, 
No more may distract when they cease to 
beguile ; 
When all her waste places and hearts that have 
bled 
Shall be robed in bright raiment and win 
back the smile ! 
When winter, whose hardships were lightened 
by wit, 
And that glorious old king-scathing tongue 
in the blast — 
His snow-realms too oft by the death-candle 
lit— 
Shall voice the enchantments of freedom at 
last ! 

Pale flame ! burning heart, — outlasting the night, — 
That will brook no requital save morning's 
alone ! 



44 Songs for the Hour. 

Shine on, sanguine fires, the lands that ye light 
Are all the fair dreamer may yet call her 
own ; 
Fade not till the day come ! ye've. conquered 
the might 
Of soul-stifling storms none but Erin have 
known ; 
Outlasting the havoc of bailiff and blight, 
The hunger and heartache, the madness and 
moan; 
Surviving the grief, like a rose newly blown, 

As if lit in a garden of endless delight. 
To melt in the smile, when the shadows have 
flown. 
Of that ruddy Aurora, the Eros of Right ! 

Deathless dream ! flashing scorn of the scaffold 
and cell. 
And sacred with sufferings for liberty's 
sake ! — 



Erin's Sweet Dream. 45 

'Twas Erin's fond glance on the exile that 
fell 
When that star shed its balm on the heart 
that would break 
But for Erin ! who saw not the tears of her 
son, 
And, if seeing, had bidden him put them 
away. 
That her fight 'gainst oppression might sooner 
be won, 
As the death of her heroes had hastened the 
day; 
That her battle for home rule, for honor and 
home, 
May coax freedom's kiss to that gem of the. 
sea ! 
And her sons need no more brave billow and 
foam, 
In search of . that fairy-land, • Erin, the 
Free ! 



46 Songs for the Hour. 

Brave hearts to defend her, that never despair, 
Free lands to befriend her on both sides the 
sea, — 
The dream is from God ! His smile it doth 
wear, 
Forecasting the twilight of Erin, the Free ! 

December, 1884. 



BETWEEN THE SOWING AND 
THE REAPING. 

The sower's song is gay and blithe, — 

The blade appears; but while he's sleeping 

Success or Ruin whets his scythe, 
Between the sowing and the reaping. 

He finds them wrestling in the corn ; 

Sometimes they stand together, weeping, — 
The changeful Night, the fickle Morn, — 

Between the sowing and the reaping. 

'Tis true we reap as we have sown, — 

That is, in kind; but in God's keeping 

The blessing is, and His alone. 

Between the sowing and the reaping. 

47 



48 Songs for the Hour. 

Yet some who cry " Our God is good," 
Their harvest wains with plenty heaping, 

Did all against Him that they could 
Between the sowing and the reaping. 

And some who curse the God above, 
Amid their barren cornfields weeping. 

Declared with fervor " God is love," 
Between the sowing and the reaping. 

But Faith, from Famine's withered breast 

To life miraculous upleaping, 
Counts that abundance God has blest 

Both in the sowing and the reaping. 

October 7, 1886. 



LIGHT-HEARTED. 

The whippoorwill's call sounds blithesome to 
me 
As the bobolink's key-note of gladness ; 
My honeysuckles breathe, as they harbor the 
bee, 
Not the least hint of heartache or sadness. 

My roses are ruddy and ready to look 
Death full in the face without sighing; 

Not a flower in my garden that darkens its 
nook 
With dreams of the hardship of dying ! 

The daisies I love do not lavish their gold 

On the mounds where the dreamless are 

sleeping ; 
c d 5 49 



50 Songs for the Hour. • 

My violets hide not their leaves in the mould 
Where the long grasses weep with the weep- 
• ing. 

My lilies make ready by night to attend 
The Earth's golden wedding with Morning, 

And a myriad fair things quaint offerings send 
For my Lord and my Lady's adorning. 

It has cost me no tears to return you the kiss 
That comes with good-night and good-mor- 
row. 

Light-hearted ! Yes, dear, but is not your bliss 
Color-blind to the signals of sorrow ? 



THE LOVER'S IDEAL. 

The fairest flower that lifts her head 
To drink the dews that fall so free 

Sinks gently down lipon her bed, 

At night, my Love, to dream of thee. 

The stars come out to give thee light 

And throw their radiance round thy form, 

As though no other maiden bright 

E'er lived whose lips with love were warm. 

The angels hover o'er thy path 
With tenderness and love untold, 

And, with the heart an angel hath. 
Their arms about thy spirit fold. 

They gaze upon thy beauty till 

They think of Eve before she fell, 

51 



5 2 Songs for the Hour. 

When through their bosoms swept a thrill 
Of love and joy ineffable ! 

While flowers below and stars above, 
And angels sweet your presence deem ; 

May you fulfil, in life and love, 

My steadfast heart's more heavenly dream ! 



ONE OF LONGFELLOW'S LET- 
TERS. 

" I WOULD praise them more, had you praised 
me less" 

Is a flower from his Muse, enfolding for aye 
Its coveted secret in rosy duress. 

In a letter whose kindness is clear as day, 
Revealing the grace and fragrance divine 
Of a heart-flower of his for a handful of mine. 

More precious to me was the praise implied. 
And the thorn thereof, than the praise e^?- 
pressed ; 

For my heart, I trow, was more fit to be tried 
Than its tribute was by his friendly test, — 

Discerning the dew on flower and thorn. 

And the blush of the splendor whereof they 

were born ! 

5* 53 



54 Songs for the Hour. 

In the smile, I fancied, his letter reflected 

And flashed in the face of my love-smitten 
Muse, 

A faint gleam of humor my fond glance de- 
tected, 
Yet not the least glimpse of it willing to 
lose! 

But it symbolled the span — 'twas the poet's last 
year — 

From friendship's first smile to its farewell tear ! 

Even thus are the poets repaid by the Muse 

With one living line or one deathless lay 
(And richer the meed she is loath to refuse 
Than that she bestows in a warm-hearted 
way). 
From the happy Bohemian upholding her 

throne 
To the prince who is king in a realm of his 
own. 



Oiie of Longfellow^ s Letters, 5 5 

Her favoring glance but a transient gleam 
For the many, a deathless smile for the few, — 

Or a bosom friend, or a beautiful dream, — 
She rejects no lover because he is new ; 

But replies, when his rhapsodies run to excess, 

" I would praise them more, had you praised 
me less." 

May, 1892. 



FAIR WYOMING. 

Sing not, my Muse, as if in love wert crossed, 
Of beauty's wane and beauty's battle lost. 

Christened with joyful tears in verse divine 
That flowed, a poet named her " Fair Wyo- 
ming;" 
Whose lovely bowers were beauty's very shrine, 
Which he at once, with rapturous outbursts fine 
And farewells fond, still echoed in the gloaming, 
Enshrined in song, and glorified Wyoming ! 

When from her Indian first love she was won, 
Her brave white lover whispered, "Fair Wyo- 
ming!" 
In the fond way he wooed her was it done ; 

In flowering field at rise and set of sun, 
56 



Fair. Wyoming. 57 

In forest din all day, and flowerless loaming, 
While many a flintlock flashed for fair Wyo- 
ming. 

Not without sorrow did he win his bride, 
Herself a child of sorrows, fair Wyoming; 
Not without glory, when their tears were dried 
In Freedom's after-smile and patriot-pride. 
Whence falls a tender light, for meet illuming 
Of her remembered bfeauty, fair Wyoming. 

She lifts her woodlands like a crown, but dotes 

Upon her dappled dingles, fair Wyoming ! 

From Campbell's Ledge the vale-queen's ban- 
ner floats. 

Hymned by the birds in blithe and plaintive 
notes. 

Glad for the bonny realms banned not from 
blooming. 

And sad for beauty blighted in Wyoming. 



58 Songs for the Hour. 

Chief of her splendors, — hint of golden hair,— 
Falling from head to foot of fair Wyoming, 
The blushing sunset's favorite river there, 
A drifted dream of all that's bright and fair ! 
Ah! back to Gertrude's day is Fancy roaming? 
Or dreaming ? Fleeting glimpses, fair Wyoming ! 

She is not here nor there, the valley sprite, 
Her foot-falls, free, elude us, fair Wyoming! 
On hills which hide their hoarded wealth from 

sight 
She sets her royal signet, daisy white. 
Forget-me-not, and dandelion looming, 
Qufeen of the wild-flower land of loved Wyo- 
ming. 

The resurrected shine of suns long dead, 
Clad in dark cloud and rainbow glow in glooming, 
Casts a weird grandeur where their shadows 
spread! 



Fair Wyoming. 59 

For flaming flower the flowering flame instead, 
That brightest blooms for Labor's sake consum- 
ing; 
And oh ! what sunbursts slumber in Wyoming ! 

Lo ! in the dusk their shattered diamonds make, 
And green-eclipsing cloud, for fair Wyoming 
Plead many a pretty knoll and blooming 

brake 
And little dewy dell, for beauty's sake ! 
While wooded hills, where glimmers endless 

gloaming. 
Uplift their bannered green for fair Wyoming ! 

To hidden fields, 'midst lightnings harvested, 
And caverned night's awakened thunders boom- 
ing, 
The torch-plumed reapers . brave are charioted 
Adown the dark, while Doom's own shadow. 
Dread. 



6o Songs for the Hour. 

Flees from before their gay and fearless com- 
ing, 
Who left their loves in care of fair Wyoming. 

Night's roaring towers, day's phantoms dark that 

frown, 
But share industrial grandeur's wonted gloom- 
ing,— 
Wizards, that rain the rock-reaped jewels down, 
And breaking them in sight of all the town, 
Pluck from the fossilled leaves of Time's en- 
tombing 
The golden flower of Fortune for Wyoming! 

The city's splendors many a sylvan spot 

Enfold, kept fresh and green for fair Wyo- 
ming ; 

The vale-queen's spell remains on grove and 
grot. 

Though half their haunting legends are forgot ; 



Fair Wyoming. 6 1 

While, by the river's bend, stands Summer, sum- 
ming 

Thy varied, verdurous charms, flower-sweet 
Wyoming ! 

Over against the city's riotous shore 

Majestic trees, nurslings of wild Wyoming, 
Arise, — elm, maple, oak, and sycamore, — 
Their domed green delightful as of yore ; 
Harping the hymns sublime, or softly hum- 
ming 
The lullabies they learned of wild Wyoming. 

And what grand tales yon beauteous river 

tells, 

A rhythmic flow, of far-away Wyoming! 

And on the rustic legend how it dwells ! 

With winding panorama which impels 

The wondering towns it turns to, in its roaming. 

To weave still grander fables for Wyoming. 

6 



62 Songs for the Hour. 

From the far glory of her girdling hills 
To Flora's inmost fane, on fair Wyoming 
Lingers a grace of outline fine, which fills 
Brimful the sense of beauty ! When morn spills 
Its crystal rills, or sunset gold is foaming. 
Once more the fays have found their fair Wyo- 
ming. 

The Old romance, outdone, still finds her fair ; 
Half its romance the New owes fair Wyoming; 
Her name forever ! web and woof as rare 
As erst enriched the legend-weaver's care ! 
First and last words of Wonder in the gloam- 
ing; 
Her miniature immortal, fair Wyoming ! 



TO ERIN. 

This sudden dark is but transition. Beautiful 
as Venus 
Beheld through Sorrow's sable glass, Hope 
hastes to Freedom's side, 
Who cries to Erin through the cloud, " Bright 
shines the star between us; 
By very Hope am I eclipsed, the bridegroom 
by his bride !" 

There is a light which breeds despair, whose 

blandest ray is blighting. 

The daylight of the desert born, that murders 

with its smile; 

With golden quicksands pitiless the patient heart 

requiting, 

And here and there an oasis that blossoms to 

beguile. 

63 



64 Songs for the Hour. 

There is a shadow, cast of Hope, which hides 
a living glory, 
When, like Queen Esther, for her race she 
dares the disk of day; 
'Tis Love come closer to her Lord to tell her 
people's story, — 
Let Haman rear his scaffold high and Hatred 
have its way. 

O Erin's Star, intensely bright, yet ever pure 
and tender. 
Familiar grown with Sorrow's face, as Sorrow 
hath with thine, 
On Freedom's clouded brow falls full thy 
smile's unquenched splendor, 
Day hearkens to thee and adores ! the dark- 
ness is divine ! 

April 29, 1887. 



OUR GOLDEN STAIRS. 

Our babe had heard that pretty story, 

With wonder in his eyes, 
About the stairway, grand and golden. 

High up the happy skies. 

Four summers, for our boy, with flowers 

Those golden stairs arrayed; 
And four times all the stars of summer 

Their steps with gold inlaid. 

So often beauteous thoughts are uttered 

By childhood unawares, 
We half suspect our darlings traverse 

In dreams those golden stairs. 

One morn when ours was just awaking 

Out of a gentle sleep, 

e 6* 65 



66 Songs for the Hour. 

A smile transfigured all his features, 
That held a meaning deep. 

I said, my heart with bliss o'erflowing, 

That gloried in such cares, 
" Come down with me," when quick he queried, 

" What ! down the golden stairs ?" 

I pressed him to my heart so fondly. 

My heart sang out for joy; 
And catching up the simple chorus, 

I sang it to my boy. 

Methinks the stairs are golden. 

Because my boy in white 
Comes down them every morning 

And up them every night. 

Oh! did he fancy, on the summit 
Of rounded, rosy rest. 



Our Golden Stairs. 6"/ 

That dream-land out of which he wakened 
The Heaven of the Blest? 

Or, waking, thought his splendid journey 

Was hardly finished yet; 
And I, adown the steps remaining. 

Should carry him, my pet? 

As well when childhood's happy visions. 

As those of older hearts. 
Have floated off and left the real. 

The rapture soon departs. 

When down its steps we both descended. 

And at the bottom stood. 
Surprised, my child surveyed our stairway. 

And cried, ** It's only wood !" 

But soon, with childish, sweet persistence. 
When half a mind to scold, 



68 Songs for the Hour. 

He caught the sunlight on the varnish, 
And smiling said, " It's gold !" 

Perhaps too young to deem it golden, 
For that his Heavenly Friend 

And Father smiles upon his pathway, 
With Heaven at either end? 

Again I clasped him, oh ! so fondly. 
My heart sang out for joy ; 

When catching up the happy chorus, 
I sang it for my boy. 

For this our stairs are golden. 

Our little angels bright 
Come down them every morning, 

Go up. them every night. 

March 5, 1883. 



THE LIGHTS THAT MOCK US. 

There is no mockery in the smile of Morn, 
None in the dazzling Noonday's glance divine ; 
The earnest Stars look down, with brows 
benign, 

To bless the gentle dreams of Twilight born. 

And e'en the merry Moon, a tinge of scorn 
That just escapes for mortal fancies fine. 
With all the mischief shadowed in her shine, 

Smiles like a rose regretful of its thorn. 

The lights of earth, which have a kindly glow 
And sweep of vision heavenly in its ken, 
Smile, in their seasons, on the sons of men. 
Who meet the unfriendly shaft with bended bow. 
The gleams we follow vanish like the elves ; 
The lights that mock us glimmer in our- 
selves. 

69 



COME IN MY DREAMS. 

A SONG. 

Come in my dreams and smile again, 

Come with the loving look of old ; 
This broken heart is happy then, 

And flutters free from sorrow's hold ! 
Come in my dreams and kiss again. 

The dear old fondness to renew — 
I wake to find you false, but when 

I dream, oh ! then so fond and true ! 

Come in my dreams, when slumber brings 

Forgetfulness of all my woe ; 
Come in sweet dreams, when fond Love wings 

The swallow flights of long ago, 
And, from its home within the heart, 

Still cleaves the clouds that lie beyond ; 

And you shall nevermore depart, 

And I will nevermore despond ! 
70 



Come in my Dreams. 71 

Come in my waking hours no more, 

Unless it be with tearful eyes ; 
For close to sorrow's troubled shore 

Love, in a hopeless circle, flies, 
And knows it ne'er can build again 

The broken nest from whence it flew — 
I wake to find you false, but when 

I dream, oh ! then so fond and true ! 



THE CYCLONE. 

What had Wyoming's hill-girt city 

To fear from her Cloudland fair? 
Oft had our hearts been stirred with pity, 

But never yet with prayer, 
With muttered curse and imprecation, 

From pallid lips outpoured, 
When the fierce Wind-Fiends of Desolation 

Were unfettered by the Lord ! 
The Doom-Cloud's shadow was wont to en- 
shroud 

The homes of the West alone ; 
And what had our Valley, in shine or cloud, 

To fear from the far Cyclone? 

Far different the picture on Nature's ken 

When the leonine storms from their lair up- 
rose ! 
72 



The Cyclone. 73 

When, for man and beast, in meadow and glen. 
And here, where the fair Susquehanna flows, 

The strange unrest of a sultry day 
To an unknown terror turned ! 

And the cinder-like sun in the glooming gray 
Like a beacon of danger burned ! 

Never so dread was the black dome above us, 
The clouds never wore so fierce a frown ; 

And even the Rain, that was still fain to love us. 
Like the tears of the prophet, wept over the 
town ! 

A crash through the clouds ! 'Tis only the 
thunder — 
Ah ! the tremors that follow its more dis- 
tant peals ! 

While, before and behind, and over and 

under, 

Broods the horror that Nature already feels ! 
d 7 • 



74 Songs for thf Hour. 

'Tis an outburst of rage from the fretting At- 
lantic ! 
Nay, a home-brewed storm, — a hurricane 
waif! 
Tall trees are toppled, the horses are frantic, 
Not a spot in the city that seems to be 
safe ! . 

Not a doubter is left to make light of the 

danger ; 
The oldest inhabitant daft as the stranger^ — 
Behind houses, in hiding, crouch fear-stricken 

men. 
Who fled from their shelter, and seek it again ! 
Hither and thither the bravest are speeding, 
The fate of their friends and their neighbors 

unheeding ! 
No, no, 'tis for Love's sake the fugitives 

strive, — 
The loved they may never again meet alive ! 



The Cyclone. 75 

Sense of dread is not all in the hearing and 
seeing ; 
The forebodings of woman are quickest to 
form — 
Frightened wives, with their babes, to the cellar 
are fleeing. 
And some for their babes are braving the 
storm ! 
In the grasp of suspense, by great perils di- 
vided, 
The dear ones of home were never so dear; 
But some, unaware of what has betided. 

The sweet lullaby sing, " There is nothing to 
fear!" 

» 
The Lightning's red finger the fire-bell tolls ! 
The smoke of the flame-fronted Tempest uprolls 
From river to roadway, from roadway to 

street, — 
Its flight up the valley less fatal than fleet. 



70 Songs far the Hour. 

And the trophies it tore from a neighboring 

vale 
But as straws to the conquests in store for the 

gale. 
Lo ! deeper the gloom where opposing storms 

meet, 
Both caught in the grip of a greater than they, 
Defiant at first and now swift to obey, 
But changing its course, while they hang on 

the verge, 
And widen the sweep of its terrible scourge ! 
With the menace of death for a myriad of 

souls. 
The smoke of the flame-fronted Tempest up- 

rolls 
' From the south of the city, eastwardly blown, — 
" Fire !" the first outcry, and now • " The Cy- 
clone !" 
A moment ago men stood in its path 
Who now scan its revels unscathed of its wrath ! 



The Cyclone. yy 

" Thank God, we are saved !" the cry as it 

veers. 
It has swung to the right, and when it up- 

rears, 
Lo ! the funnel-shaped cloud that every one 

fears ! 

"A Cyclone!" "A Cyclone!" tells the tale 

in a word : 

Its shuddering sounds for miles may be 

heard ; 

Its fierce hissing noises, its rumble and roar, 

Are a hundredfold louder and terrify more 

Than the rush of a runaway train in the 

night, 

In charge of a mad engineer, 

Whose maniac shrieks and yells of delight 

Were dreadful to hear, 

As the engine, in agony, swept into sight; 

Fear too affrighted to fear! 
7* 



yS Songs for the Hour. 

And the crash that befell, when it came in 
collision 
With another that dreamt not of danger 
ahead, 
Was as naught to the wreck that is wrought, 
in derision, 
By the awful Cyclone, with its dying and 
dead ! 

Rolling on in the dark of its own dread 
creation. 
Black billows of smoke and half-smothered 
flame, 
Like a monster, with headlights, that stops 
at no station, 
It comes to destroy, and will go as it came ! 

Like the voice of the tempest, now low and 
now high, 
Increasing in volume and terror of tone, 



The Cyclone. 79 

It rises and falls as it rolls through the sky, 
With forces unlooked for in league with 
its own ! 
And striking the ground, in its dance of de- 
struction, 
Spreads ruin niore wide than its zigzag- 
ing path ! 
Drawing up to the maw of its . maelstrom- 
like suction 
All the odds and the ends of its house- 
wrecking wrath ! 
The roof of a cottage that somebody cherished. 
The tree that had sheltered his shattered 
abode ; 
Dread reminders of home and its inmates 
that perished, 
To heighten our fears and our horror to 
goad ! 
A cradle let fall where babe never crept. 
The shreds of a carpet that Beauty had trod ; 



8o So7tgs for the Hour. 

But, blind to its ridicule, man's humor 
slept ; 
More fearful the scene because it was 
odd! 

Steeds in full flight, — types of Fury Titanic,- — 
The forecasts of Terror outdistanced by 
Death, 
Or hurled, as they coursed o'er the pitfalls 
of panic. 
Into caverns that Ruin had built in a 
breath ! 

Prayer in a street-coach the storm-bombs 
were shelling; 
In a very simoom of thick-flying debris ! 
Wild shrieks of anguish in many a dwell- 

The warning too late from destruction to 
flee! 



The Cyclone. 8 1 

Dwellings, whose beauty had gladdened the 
vision, 
In the tatters of ruin the strange tale to tell ! 
Solid structures it smote with appalling pre- 
cision ; 
Either razed to the ground or crushed like 
a shell ! 

Mighty towers snapped off like the masts of a 
vessel 
By this worse than a sea-storm, a-stalk o'er 
the land ; 
And lo ! where their Giants had gathered to 
wrestle, 
What shipwrecks were strewn on Calamity's 
strand ! 

Countless hearts with which it had cruelly toyed, 

Unstrung in the midst of the sorrow it 

spread ! 
/ 



82 Songs for the Hour. 

Hundreds of homes in a twinkling destroyed, 
And more than a score of the mangled and 
dead ! 



The dirge has been sung, and the solemn bell 

tolled, 
Long ago for our loved, the young and the 
old, 

A score that were slain 

By the dread Cyclone ! 
Let not its dirges be heard again. 

For love's sake alone ! 
The tremble of bell, and of tear, 

O'er the dust of our mangled dead, 
Is forgot, — and forgotten, I fear, 

When the shadows of terror had 
fled, 
The sincere and solemn thanksgiving 
That was offered to God by the living. 



The Cyclone. 83 

Let us be grateful for evermore 
That the graves we counted were only a 
score ! 

'Tis the mad strength of Death and Destruction. 

In a black, rushing cloud-rack confined, 
That wrought into frenzy will brook no ob- 
struction , 
From anything earthly, its kindred or kind ; 
From man, or his works, though he build 
them of granite. 
With the broadest foundations, the tallest of 
towers ; 
Like the Earthquake and Flood, the scourge 
of our planet, 
Lest men should grow vain in the pride of 
their powers. 

Not the thing of an hour! but casting aside 
Its ebony chariot, whose courier is Fear, 



84 So7igs for the Hour. 

From the region of air where mortals abide 
It ascends, it is said, to a loftier sphere; 
Coursing the globe at a speed would erase 
Every vestige of life and of love from its face ! 
But the circuits of Terror it sweeps not alone : 
Its number is thousands, its name, The Cy- 
clone ! 

To planes far above us in mercy uplifted. 
Narrow its path and eccentric its flight ; 
And mortals give thanks when its movements 
are shifted 
From the hamlets and cities it fills with 
affright ! 

1891. 



IRELAND AND HER MARTYRS. 
I. 

Voices of eloquence and poesy 

And song, poured on the breeze by deathless 
lips, 
That lead the universal symphony 

Of freedom; you would suffer no eclipse 
If, pausing now in mid-flight of your theme, 

You caught the plaintive note of yon sad 
Land, 
In whose torn breast freedom is but a dream. 

And baffled hope an inward burning brand ! 
Forgetful of the feuds of race or clan, 

Undaunted by the clash of differing creeds, 
Remembering alone man's debt to man. 

And all the world is kin in direst needs. 

Should follow then so grand a Marseillaise, 

Tyranny would turn and flee the enchanted 

place ! 

8 85 " 



86 Songs for the Hour. 

II. 

The birthday of a patriot martyr slain 
For love of liberty, where men are free, 
Is fitting time for joy and jubilee; 

But such a day is pierced with thrilling pain. 

E'en though the glory of his death remain, 
If for his land it brought not liberty. 
Or some sure sign its dawning soon would be 

Hope's heralding he had not died in vain ! 
The death-days of thy heroes. Land of ours, 

When all the sudden overflow of tears 

Hath ebbed away, grow fragrant with sweet 
flowers ; 

And for the "sobbing bells" the nation hears 
The shrilly clarions of a glowing morn 
The day repeat when Liberty was born. 

III. 
But thou, sad Isle! — forever fresh and green 
In the fond memory of thy children here, 



Ireland and her Martyrs. 87 

Though thy sweet grasses withered were and 
sere, — 
How many mournful deaths thy soil hath seen! 
With naught but growing sorrows spread be- 
tween ; 
And following hard upon the martyr's bier 
The footsteps of fell woe, and want, and fear ; — 
O Sorrow's Isle ! how hard thy lot hath been ! 
And for thy suffering heroes what harsh doom, 
That did not grant thee what they died to 
gain ! 
In all this wide, wide world a little room, 
A little space for them who would remain 
To live and die like freemen — simple boon — 
Beneath their own bright skies and harvest 
moon ! 

IV. 
Yet something in brave Emmet's breast was 
fain 
To picture Ireland free ! the. hero heard 



8S Songs for the Hour. 

Afar his rescued country's happy strain, 

And read her unwrit history word by word. 
He felt that his young hfe was a sweet leaven 

Ireland's after-times should so pervade, 
She still would find the favoring smile of 
Heaven, 
Though in the dust his loving heart was laid ; 
And from the night that wrapped his dust in 
gloom 
A clear, unclouded dawn would some time rise. 
And his dear, dead country come forth of the tomb 
Of Tyranny, with the day-spring in her eyes ; 
While friendly lands should scatter at her feet 
Freedom's fair flowers, that smell so fresh and 
sweet ! 

V. 
O Isle of many griefs ! henceforth take heart. 
The still, small voice in England's yielding 

breast, 
Till you are free, will never give her rest — 



Ireland and her Martyrs. 89 

England herself at last will say, " Depart 
In peace." For ah ! not always by the art 
Of statesmanship or arms may Empire wrest 
A people's God-given rights away; the test 
Is truth divine, from brute force far apart ! 
Erin, take heart ! the day is not far off; 
For friend and foe alike do force the time ; 

God never heeds man's favor or his frown. 
Though pride of power resist, and hatred scoff, 
The omens of the century are sublime — 

The love of right grows stronger than the 
Crown. 
1880. 



8* 



DESERTING THE FLAG OF THE 
STARRY EYES. 

In the glorified cavalry garb of the Union 

A shadow, like mine, but in mien too brave 
With a soldier that faltered to hold communion. 

Comes hinting to me of a flower-strewn grave, 
Of his ghostly rides in the ranks of glory, 

And my part in the patriot's paradise ! 
'Tis a dream of his ; the deserter's story 

Is known to the Flag of the Starry Eyes ! 

More in fear of the flag than the ban I was 

under, 

When I fled in the charge that was lance to 

lance ; 

I heard her voice in the cannon's thunder. 

And my heart seemed to shrivel beneath her 

glance 
90 



Deserting the Flag of the Starry Eyes. 91 

Where the battle raged ; but alas ! I dallied 
With the moment when manhood lives or 
dies; 

And when my courage had fairly rallied, 
I fled from the scorn of her beautiful eyes ! 

At every turn she uprose before me, 

On the battle-cloud with its lightning flame; 
And the spell of her grandeur in action came 
o'er me, 

With Freedom beside her, and deathless 
Fame! 
But still I fled, for the step had been taken; 

Then a shout of victory shook the skies. 
And lo ! it was I who had been forsaken. 

Not the charioted queen of the starry eyes ! 

My battle-scars for naught had counted, 

Were they shown to her in her fierce dis- 
dain : 



92 Songs for the Hour. 

With the sabre-stroke, on my charger mounted, 
I might seek for her dear old smile in vain! 
So I spurred my horse, in my mad despairing, 
Tow'rd the shallows of shame, to his great 
surprise ; 
And I felt that a hero my shame was sharing, — 
With his head thrown back tow'rd her 
beckoning eyes! 

But he wheeled about, with the wildest neigh- 
ing, 
His love for her trumpeting far and wide. 
With the sweep of a whirlwind her gesture 
obeying, 
As he plunged into victory's swelling tide. 
She patted his neck as in approbation, — 

My Nemesis now in a charger's guise, — 
While the touch of her filled me with conster- 
nation. 
And a cowering dread of her flashing eyes ! 



Deserting the Flag of the Starry Eyes, 93 

Thenceforward he ran bereft of a rider, 

With my blood as a balm for his wounded pride; 
And the gulf between us grew darker and wider, 

Till it moaned like the sea when its storms 
subside. 
But the scorn of the Flag there was no escaping : 

Wherever I went she was sure to rise, 
Unfurled to the sight or of fancy's own shaping, 

With the torments of hell in her soul-haunt- 
ing eyes ! 

I wandered away in a trance of terror. 

Away from the Flag, and the faces of men ! 
And my farther flight was a fatal error. 

For the refuge sought I have failed to gain. 
But oh ! if I knew in my isolation 

That they mourn me for dead and my memory 
prize, 
I would crave of death's angel emancipation 

From the maddening thrall of her myriad eyes ! 



94 Songs for the Hour. 

I have grayed since then less with years than 
sorrow, 
On this shore more lonely than ocean-isle ; 
But perchance I shall sight a sail to-morrow, 

And catch from afar her forgiving smile! 
The winds and the waves will attest my con- 
trition. 
She has smiled in my dreams and heard all 
my sighs, 
And never had soldier a heavenlier vision 

Who has walked with Despair, 'neath her still, 
starry eyes ! 

I plead not the laurels I wore when I faltered. 
Nor the fever-racked frame to the battle I 
brought, 
But the love which the hardship of fate has not 
altered, 
And a heart that beats true in a bosom dis- 
traught. 



Deserting the Flag of the Starry Eyes. 95 

Oh ! the touch of her folds ! how it thrilled 
through and through me 
When she smiled in my dreams and gave ear 
to my sighs ! 
But waking, I fear that her glance would undo me, 
Bending over me so with her beautiful eyes ! 

Lo ! a friendly sail ! the banner flying 
That embraces the world in her peaceful 
dream ! 
While prone on the strand is a soldier dying 

Of a broken heart and her starry gleam ! 
Let his name be dropped from the roll-call of 
glory 
And classed with deserters, but do not despise ; 
For the love of the Flag is an unfinished 
story 
Without the forgiveness that falls from her 



eyes 



1889. 



SAINTED AT SEVEN. 

Sweet sunshine plays around my dwelling, 
And pleasures hive their precious store; 

O tearless heart! there is no telling 
What sorrows wait without thy door. 

Mother, press closer to your bosom 
The child you lately feared to lose; 

For every household has its blossom, 

And Death stands doubting which to choose. 

Thick gloom enfolds my neighbor's dwelling, 
A lovely child of seven lies dead ; 

But oh ! through sorrow's sudden knelling 
Her sweet voice falls : " Be comforted." 

One sweet tone threads the solemn tolling: 

" Beloved of all, and only seven ;" 
96 



Sainted at Seven. 97 

While, from above, still more consoling : 
"Seven means safe with Christ in heaven." 

Enter, dear Christ, grief's darkened dwelling, 
And comfort them who weep to-night; 

And with tHy presence, peace-compelling, 
Fill all the house with heavenly light. 



THE HUNDRED AND FORTY- 
THIRD. 

(a typical regiment.) 

Written for and read at the Reunion of the One Hundred and 
Forty-Third Regiment P. V., at Camp Luzerne, August 26, 189 1. 

On our far-famed Valley what glory falls 

Like the deeds of The Hundred and Forty- 
Third ? 
The service to Freedom their story recalls, 
On our beautiful Valley the crown they con- 
ferred ! 
The men who remembered the Patriot's tomb 
And the dust of the martyrs in Liberty's 
urn! 
What splendor uplighted the fair Valley's 
gloom 
Like that which was kindled in Camp Lu- 
zerne ? 



The Hundred and Forty-Third. 99 

A band of the boldest from hill-side and glen, 

The ready-made heroes of forest and mine, 
Our foremost and first, all brave-hearted men ! 
And Liberty smiled when they fell into line 
And followed her lead, eleven hundred strong, 
The Flag of the Free, and the Sword of 
the Brave, 
To the fife and the drum that enchanted the 
throng, 
When they marched to the front the Union 
to save. 

Devoted to duty in camp-life and drill, 

Upbuilding a fort, or marching through mire. 
Supporting an army at Chancellorsville 

As if they had not been but once under 

• fire! 
In the swamp and corn-stubble as ready to 
serve 

The colors they bore as in battle array; 



lOO Songs for the Hour. 

From none of war's hardships willing to swerve, 
The Flag's firm defenders forever and aye! 

With a leader who loved them far more than 
his life, 
With a love that outweighed all the laurels 
of war, 
And officered so for the terrible strife, 

Not a corporal there that you could not adore, 
Not a private of whom you would not be proud ; 
And the zeal on their features was some- 
thing divine, 
As they chafed to come under the black battle- 
cloud. 
That the sunshine of Freedom the sooner 
might shine. 

Oh ! these were the heroes, and men of like 
mould, 
With the Keystone itself in Confederate reach, 



The Hundred and Forty-Third. loi 

The fearless invader in firm check to hold, 
To lead the attack, or fill up the breach; 

To fight three to one, and change front under fire, 
And fight on, unsupported, while others re- 
treat ; 

Fire volley on volley, when forced to retire. 
While the rebel flood-tide rolled up at their feet ! 

Ay, these and their comrades, now Dana's 
brigade. 
Who had charged and destroyed three bri- 
gades in the fray. 
Deserve deathless fame for the firm stand they 
made, 
When they kept a whole army for five hours 
at bay ! 
The key of the first day's defence in their 
keeping, 
"We have come here to stay," the cry first 
and last; 



102 Songs for the Hour. 

And there to this day are some of them sleep- 
ing, 
Where the bugle recalls their brave battle- 
blast. 

Ah ! well may we look for a valor like theirs 
To find its full flower in that living ro- 
mance, 
When their brave color-sergeant a whole army 
dares, 
With clinched fist defying its sweeping ad- 
vance. 
Their Nemesis incarnate was facing them then, 

A finger prophetic, his finger of scorn ! 
For Crippen had caught, on his clear, dying ken. 
The first flush of the triumph to come with 
the morn! 

" Rally on your colors !" Conyngham cried, 
"Rally, One Hundred and Forty-Third!" 



The Hundred and Forty-Third. 103 

" Rally on your colors !" DeLacy replied, 

And the action was suited then and there 
to the word ; 

And all the boys rallied, the colors were saved, 
Crippen himself by his comrades outdone ! 

Ever thus have the soldiers of Freedom behaved ; 
In this way the war for the Union was won. 

When the dread morning broke on the third 
day's fight, 
With artillery havoc unheard of before, 
And Lee's legions at last came surging in 
sight, 
They still did their duty in Doubleday's corps ! 
The artillery's target, supporting the left, 

As if rebel revenge marked them out for its 
prey, 
Springing up in the path its avalanche cleft, 
'Gainst Wilcox and Pickett helped carry the 
day. 



104 Songs for the Hour. 

Superhuman your valor, ye brave volunteers, 
In your State and your hearth-stones' immor- 
tal defence ; 
So heightening the zeal of your gallant com- 
peers, 
All the homes of the free seemed in breath- 
less suspense. 
So the North's brave battalions fought on, to a 
man. 
As if each its own firesides were struggling 
to save; 
" For the land of the free," the fierce battle began. 
But the fight's loud refrain was "The home 
of the brave !" 

With scarcely a thought of the glory they won, 
The country in peril their uppermost care. 

Still it lightened their hearts, the knapsack and 
gun. 
The burdens of march and manoeuvre to bear. 



The Hundred atid Forty-Third. 105 

Always true to their trust, wherever they stood 
The Capitol guarding, or goading the foe; 

Whether merry or sad was the veterans' mood, 
The stern voice of Duty they ne'er failed 
to know. 

Right well had they earned the camp's wel- 
come rest, 
Recruiting their ranks and their own crip- 
pled powers ; 
But the day had not dawned of their uttermost 
test, 
Though its shadow lay dark on the long 
winter hours ! 
And its shadow is flung on the glories of 
May, 
And the Rapidan runs like a river of tears ; 
'Tis night in the Wilderness while yet it is day. 
For Doomsday has burst on our brave vol- 
unteers ! 



io6 Songs for the Hour. 

Like wild beasts in the woods the batteries roar, 
Like Gehenna the smoke of the conflict as- 
cends, 
As it withers the flower of the First Army 
Corps, 
On whose bhndfolded bravery the battle 
depends. 
Here were horrors to war hitherto unknown, 
When Glory to Agony yielded the crown ! 
The battle-shout here was a shuddering groan, 
And Triumph itself wore a grim, ghastly 
frown ! 

Like courage incarnate these foemen had met, 
And the butchery lasted day after day; 

Compassion was dead, not an eyelid was wet, 
For the fury of hell had laid hold of the fray ; 

So fierce it relentlessly followed the dead, 

To the brows of the dying the death-damp 
denied : 



The Hundred and Forty-Third. 107 

For the fires of the brush were the shrouds 
that it spread, 
The charred trees the sole mourners that 
wailed at their side. 

But the undaunted heroes of Dana's brigade, — 
Who, wounded and captured, could lead them 
no more, — 
When Mercer was killed, fought on undis- 
mayed, 
With their dying behind them and duty be- 
fore! 
When wounded still fought, and laughed at 
their wounds ; 
Fought on till they died — it was fitting they 
should — 
Against foemen whose courage acknowledged 
no bounds, 
In that caldron of battle and brave men's 
blood ! 



lo8 Songs for the Hour. 

In the boldest relief 'gainst that background of 
gloom 
Was the improvised fight of the Second 
Brigade, 
When Glory her lost smile was seen to re- 
sume 
At the wild charge its men under Conyng- 
ham made ! 
Detached from your friends, in what savored of 
rout. 
You must needs keep on fighting, and rallied 
again 
On finding the colors that Osborne hung 
out 
At the famous Cross Roads for his own fear- 
less men ! 

Retaking the battery that Hancock had lost, 
In the face of its guns and a hand-to-hand 
fight— 



The Hundred and Forty-Third. 109 

Heaven knows why you came there, when sore 
battle-tossed, 
If 'twas not to help Hancock put Longstreet 
to flight! 
Hancock driven back with his troops in re- 
treat. 
Major Osborne rode up and gave the com- 
mand, 
And you soon laid the prize at the General's feet, 
With your five or six hundred, a brave- 
hearted band! 

Your regiment's dread decimation attests 

The proud part that you took in those terri- 
ble days. 
And with lustre more lasting your valor in- 
vests 
Than anything else that is said in its praise. 
The morning reports that its companies kept 

Had pathos to touch e'en a veteran's soul; 
10 



I lo Songs for the Hour. 

In the sound of the bugle a slight tremor 
crept, 
While a pitiful remnant answered the roll! 

Eighty strong to the fight each company came, 
But it tugs at the heart-strings the remnants 
to see. 
As one scans the reports — the rest average the 
same — 
Of the nine, twelve, and eighteen of A, K, 
and G! 
Dead and living their heroes too many to name, 
Though the regiment adds to the army's re- 
nown ; 
Commanders and men all deserving of fame, 
Without naming the patriots, we point to their 
crown. 

But the Union's vast sacrificial fount, 

With its rivers of blood, must still higher rise ; 



The Hundred and Forty-Third. iii 

With many a grim mile-stone of battle to count 
On the steep, gory path that ahead of you 
lies. 
Cold Harbor to come, with its hopeless as- 
sault; 
Its glory and slaughter, the grimmest of these ! 
But a star still beckons from Victory's vault; 
To the gates of Success Grant still holds the 
keys. 

In the siege and assault, when the river is crossed, 
A share of its grandeur your regiment 
claims ; 
The Confederate Malakoff hopelessly lost, 
The jasper of glory thrown back on the 
James ! 
From summit to summit of splendor you 
march. 
Every fight that you wage is fought in its 
shine ; 



112 Songs for the Hour. 

The rainbow of Hope spans the North's 
clouded arch, 
But the work done beneath it is still more 
divine. 

From your cold winter-quarters, still seen in 
your dreams, 
You catch its bright rays with the opening 
of spring, 
And they blend, as you fight, with your bayo- 
net gleams, 
As o'er Hatcher's Run their halo they fling. 
" Charging the fortifications" your last 

Fitting work, and how glorious the word — 
Duty the first and last mile-stone you passed — 
For men like The Hundred and Forty-Third ! 

On our far-famed Valley what glory falls 

Like the deeds of The Hundred and Forty- 
Third ? 



The Hundred and Forty -Third. 113 

No sweet sounds more sad than its faint bugle- 
calls, 
None more brave when in war-time their 
echoes were heard ; 
None sadder. Your dear old Commander is 
dead, 
At rest with the heroes of whom he was 
fond ; 
But the glow of their smiles on your camp-fire 
is shed. 
And sweet is the bugle that calls from be- 
yond ! 

August 22-25, 1 89 1. 



10* 



SHERIDAN. 

As rain-laden roses droop low on the stem, 
So droopeth to-day Columbia's fair Gem 
'Neath a cloud-burst of grief! The Flag at 

half-mast, 
With heart-breaking news from Nonquitt at 

last ! 
All suddenly shrouded in sorrow, the while 
'Twas trembling with rapture 'neath Sheridan's 

smile ! 

Like the wife of his bosom kneeling down when 

he died, 
And the comforting angels who knelt at her 

side, 

So the Flag of his Country bends low over him, 

With a pride in its bosom that tears cannot 

dim, 
114 



Sheridan. 115 

That swells its bright folds till they glisten and 

gleam 
Like the fond smile of love in a sorrowful 

dream ! 
Like a dream seems his death, — and so cruel 

the while 
The sunshine of hope came with Sheridan's 
, smile. 

Banner beloved ! in the depths of thy blue 
Glassing deeds that are golden forever anew ; 
The god in his look, whose likeness they 

caught 
In the one supreme moment with destiny 

fraught. 
In the crisis of battle, the crash and the 

strain. 
Unmatched in thy memory shall ever remain ! 
Unveil as of yore, our grief to beguile, 
The sunburst of triumph in Sheridan's smile. 



Il6 So?igs for the Hour. 

Like Columbia, the beautiful Queen of the Free, 
The Flag bows in sorrow on land and on 

sea, 
And sobs for a soldier as true and as brave 
As a land ever loved or God ever gave ; 
Its stars all in tears, and its stripes all aflame. 
While it wreathes this memorial round Sheri- 
dan's name : 
"No gem decks the Crown of the Union re- 
stored 
Like the gleam of the glory of Sheridan's 
sword." 

Admired of the world, by the army adored, 

Let the tears of his comrades bejewel his 
sword ; 

In the sheath of white roses that Peace has en- 
twined 

Be the blade that is blameless forever en- 
shrined ! 



Sheridan. wj 

Touch gently, kind winds, the draped Banner 

that weeps, — 
In the love of its bosom the worn hero sleeps, — 
Till it findeth, enfolding a heart without guile, 
Death's shadows have vanished in Sheridan's 

smile. 

August 8, 1888. 



THE LAST OF THE THREE. 

Listen, Atlanta! 

Be still, O sorrowing sea! 
A bugle-note, sad yet consoling, 
Kindling our pride and our grief controlling, 
Is blown of the lips of Glory, 

On the camping-ground of the Free, 
For the last of our three great Captains, 

The last of the Three ! 

Meed of his triumphs from Chattanooga 
Down to Atlanta, his march divine. 

Revealed in the genius akin to mercy 
A bulwark stronger than battle-line! 

In his last lonely march victorious, 

Lo ! on the shadowy shore, 
ii8 



The Last of the Three. 119 

Sherman, with Grant and Sheridan, 
And the last of our three great Admirals, 
Who sailed a day before ! 

From the farthest north to Atlanta, 

From Atlanta to the sea, 
The tolling bells, still a-tremble 
For the last of the naval trio 

That sailed on the silent sea, 
Give voice to the people's affection 
For the soldier who loses no lustre. 

When we think, with a thrill, of the Three ! 

In the sweet peace they conquered together. 
In Liberty's own golden weather. 
Let all the bells tearfully tremble 

The loving farewells of the Free, 
For the last of our great Commanders, 

The last of Three ! 
February 19, 1891. 



WHEN DEATH HAD LOST THE 
DAY. 

While yet she trod the rosy ways 

Of childhood, pure and sweet, 
She met the Master's tender gaze, 

And worshipped at His feet; 
And thus from infant innocence 

To conscious faith she passed, 
And steadfast proved till she went hence 

To be with Him at last; 
Her path to Joy's celestial sphere 

Victorious all the way, 
There was no time in her career 

When Death could win the day. 

Had Death surprised her in her glee 

O'er childhood's gathered flowers, 
1 20 



Wlmi Death had lost the Day. 12 1 

'Twere fraught with less felicity 

Than were her dying hours, 
When, garlanded by angels fair 

With heaven's immortal bloom, 
She smiled amidst our mute despair, 

"Triumphant o'er the tomb," 
And sang her Saviour led the way 

To heaven's perennial bowers — 
'Twas meet, since Death had lost the day. 

To deck the dead with flowers! 



From the sweet age of twelve, and up 

Through woman's fewer years, — 
O sorrowing hearts ! the bitter cup 

Is brimmed with happy tears, — 
There was such sunshine in her eyes, 

Such sweetness in her smile. 
Her spirit back from Paradise 

The earth could not beguile. 

F 11 



122 Songs for the Hour. 

The perfect life she has attained, 
'Mid fields that bloom alway, 

And knows more fully what she gained 
When Death had lost the day! 

May, 1889. 



THE ROSES OF RAPTURE AND 
REST. 

White rose, arrayed for joy or sorrow, 

Friend of the living and dead, 
While from terrestrial founts you borrow 

The fragrance you calmly shed, — 
Love's tale of bliss and grief's sad story 

Telling in the very same breath, — 
To invisible skies you owe the glory 

That links you to life and death ! 

Red rose, full many a storm outlasting, 

A zephyr shall lay you low; 
Then all in vain about you casting 

For the friends you used to know ! 

The flattering touch of soft white fingers 

And Beauty's enchanting smile — 

123 



1 24 Songs for the Hour. 

The twilight of love that around you lingers — 
You shall lose in a little while. 

For the happier lot of the white rose sighing, 

To press dead Beauty's cheek, 
To follow the dead and comfort the dying — 

'Tis rest for yourself you seek, 
Red rose, consumed by a passionate longing 

For the bliss that is only a dream ; 
With the dreams you awaken, too often wronging 

The dwellers by Life's fair stream. 

The lore of death from the white rose learning, 

Life's mystery yours, red rose ; 
The fires of love in your bosom burning. 

Breath of rapture, but not repose. 
The white rose is Beauty's diviner reflection. 

Where every hue plays its part; 
And purity is but the sweet perfection 

Of harmony in the heart. 



TJie Roses of Rapture and Rest. 125 

Red rose, you have shared in the triumphs of 
Beauty, 

But the white is her dying choice; 
The flower that hallowed the paths of duty, 

And shared in her sinless joys ! 
Red roses for him who died for glory, 

Or, better, who battled for Right! 
But when we have heard their heroic story, 

The roses that rest him are white. 



THE BEAUTIFUL DEAD. 

Lines on the death of the deeply-lamented Harrison Wright, Ph.D., 
a Wyoming Valley historian and poet of great promise. 

The souls that were brave, and whose footsteps 
were dutiful, 
And love was the light they shed, 
Whose deeds made their lives, when living, beau- 
tiful, 
Surely these are the Beautiful Dead. 



And lo ! 'mong the noble of memory's number- 
ing, 
Some lives so surpassing fair, 

Like the roses that bloom while the dead are 

slumbering. 

Their beauty forbids despair. 
126 



The Beautiful Dead. 127 

Of such was the friend of the choosing and 
cherishing, 
Ahke of the young and the old, — 
Friendship, sweet in the leaf, as after the perish- 
ino" 
And at heart as fragrant to hold. 

Oh ! flower of filial love's fondest engendering, 
Fearless glance of immortal, kind eyes ! 

Oh ! smile of the brave, all self-love surrendering ! 
Kind voice! the heart's pleasant surprise. 

Kind eyes ! and yet keen, that turned so for- 
bearingly 

From the bad to the good in a friend; 
Rare, gifted intelligence ! smiting not sparingly 

The wares the false teacher would vend. 

He loitered not where the lotus was flowering, 
And fled from the blight of its bloom ; 



128 Songs for the Hour. 

But he loved the bright dreams of Nature's own 
dowering, 
A stranger to grief and to gloom. 

For him all beauty was ever in blossoming, 
His mind was a garden in bloom ! 

And Science, to him her secrets unbosoming, 
Were legend most meet for his tomb. 

His tireless quest, the honey of history. 

For winters ahead had hived; 
And of fading traditions — despite Death's mys- 
tery, 

Say not he was short-lived. 

A light indistinct Death's deeps are borrowing, — 
'Tis the Dawn, with its deathless rays; 

Yet we weep, and for soul so lovable sorrowing. 
Every tear is a pearl of praise. 



The Beautiful Dead. 129 

The heart that was brave, and whose friendship 
was beautiful, 
The spirit such lustre that shed, 
Now reaps the reward of the wise and the 
dutiful 
In the home of the Beautiful Dead. 



MY PRETTY BOY. 

My pretty boy! — 'tis love, not praise, that speaks; 
Fond words grow flower-gay in the light of 

joy,— 

By more than sparkling eyes and shapely 
cheeks, 

My pretty boy! 

Puck's hands, with sleepy hollows for each toy, 
Small mouth melodious when the kiss it seeks. 
The smile distorting grief cannot destroy; 

A straggling tear compassion quickly piques. 
Pouting with sweet cries clogged that never 

cloy. 
Your thoughts are butterflies, your footprints 

freaks. 

My pretty boy ! 
130 



HIS FIRST FIRE-CRACKER. 

'TwAS his first fire-cracker that pointed the way 
To patriotism, and taught him to take 

A personal part in the glorious day, 

When we want all the music that powder 
can make. 

In its faint hissing sound he fancied he heard 
The stir of the storm on the tyrant that 
fell; 
On its fire-kindling tongue the first whispered 
word 
That found louder utterance in Liberty's 
Bell. 

No bird-note so thrilling, no rose-bud so fair, 

As that red-coated minstrel of freedom and 

right 

131 



132 Songs for the Hour. 

That sang in his hand and hurrahed in the 
air, 

That fell like a soldier and died of delight. 



The first streak of Liberty's dawn he descried 
In its slow-kindling spark and its sunburst 
at last ; 
The rout of the red-coats and all it implied, 
The carnage and smoke where its fragments 
were cast. 



The crackers he fired are the spokes of the 
wheels 
That bring Freedom's chariot partly to view ; 
And their sparks are the stars that the rocket 
reveals. 
With a rush, when it flings out the red, 
white, and blue. 



His First Fire- Cracker. 133 

Now his patriotism needs pack upon pack, 
With their musketry music and drum-rolls 
of joy ; 
Every Fourth a step forward on glory's steep 
track, 
If he shows half the spunk that he had 
when a boy. 

December 21, 1889. 



WHAT AILS THE GAEL? 

What ails the Gael, and all his kin, 

The wide world o'er ? 
Though bright his smile has always been, 

'Tis brighter than before. 
Quoth he, and all his Celtic kin, 

" 'Tis brighter than before." 

What has his laughter glorified ? 

What is't he sees ? 
The ripple of the turning tide. 

The music of the breeze ! 
Quoth he, and every Celt beside, 

" The ripple and the breeze." 

How calm he looks ! What is't he hears ? 

The angry seas ? 
134 



What Ails the Gael? 135 

Nay, while the sky above him clears, 

The ripple and the breeze ! 
Quoth they, while Freedom's visage clears, 

" The ripple and the breeze." 



Behold ! on every shore he stands, 

With victory's mien ; 
He and his cousins clasping hands. 

With smile serene. 
Quoth they, "And Freedom understands 

That smile serene." 



Though 'gainst the century's setting sun 

Dark racks arise, 
Lo ! how the smiling ripples run 

From countless Celtic eyes ! 
" Nay, nay, 'tis Freedom's rising sun," 

The ready Celt replies. 



136 Songs for the Hour. 

What ails the Gael, and all his kin, 

The wide world o'er ? 
Though bright his smile has always been, 

'Tis brighter than before. 
Quoth he, and all his Celtic kin, 

" 'Tis brighter than before." 



LAUGHTER AND TEARS. 

One smile begets another, 
The long face hides a laugh; 

If half our smiles are happy, 
Why not the other half? 

How oft our tears are tempted. 
In rolling down, to laugh ! 

If half our tears are happy. 
Why not the other half? 

Speak, glad, salt tears hilarious, 
That drench the hearty laugh ! 

If half the heart be happy. 
Why not the other half? 

When smiles and tears are wedded 

Is born the brightest laugh; 

12* 137 



138 Songs for the Hour. 

And then the tear is truer 
And tenderer, too, by half. 

So let them be united. 

Lone tear and widowed laugh ; 
And who shall say that laughter 

Is not the better half? 

1886. 



"REDDY," THE RIVER HERO. 

(Charles Shannon, for whose life-saving services on the Dela- 
ware River the Philadelphia Press raised a fund by public sub- 
scription.) 

When "Where's my hat?" in " Reddy's" ear 

Some rescued rascal shouted, 
" The pitying angel" of the pier 

His duty never doubted. 
'Tis clear, who clamors for his hat 

To life is closer clinging. 
And " Reddy's" merry smile thereat 

Has set life's river singing: 
" O river death, down Delaware, 

Though darkly deep embedded, 
Thy crying waifs, in 'Reddy's' care. 

Come back to me bareheaded !" 

When " Where's my cap ?" with saucy mien, 

Demands a well-doused urchin, 

139 



140 Songs for the Hour. 

On " Reddy's" face a smile is seen, 

Some inward comfort searchin'. 
Though laughing-glad he picked him up, 

The while death's teeth did water, 
For those who spurn life's sparkling cup 

He makes it hot and hotter; 
Yet one mute grief his big heart rocks, — 

His boy! that drowned, without him, 
The little darling of the docks. 

With such bright ways about him ! 



Through many a year he guarded well 

Those downward-wending by-ways, 
And helped them find, who hapless fell, 

Life's fairer-looming highways. 
Hope's grimy angel ! white within 

As a happy seraph's pinions. 
That moves athwart the paths of sin, 

And leads to life's dominions ! 



"Reddy," the River Hero. 141 

Whose honored head of golden hair, 

Amid the darkness glowing, 
A tender star, down Delaware, 

Dips where 'tis death ward flowing! 

Since all beheld his modest blush, 

He's more than ever " Reddy," 
And though he feel a little flush, 

He'll ne'er turn out unsteady. 
Because he has an angel's heart, 

Let wealth's love-lifted pinions 
Now give his faithful feet a start 

Towards pleasure's bright dominions! 
And yet, just as of old, he'll jump 

Into the jaws of danger. 
While in his throat's a choking lump 

For many a little stranger. 

Place, too, the medal on his breast, 
Where sorrow finds a brother; 



142 Songs for the Hour. 

The badge of golden deeds confest 

Shall far outshine the other! 
Some, wrought when boyhood's playful pranks 

Announced him on the river; 
But not one word of simple thanks 

Did they — the saved — deliver! 
And still he's young, — for him in store 

What glory unrecorded, 
Who thought, if he might rescue more, 

He were full well rewarded ! 

August 22, 1884. 



THE PENNY. 

When Mammon, in a merry mood. 
First pleads to doubting babyhood 

The beauty of the penny, 
Love plays a laughing interlude 

With captive kisses many. 
And when it falls from baby's hands, 
Time turns his glass of glittering sands 

For baby's sake, if any, 

While penny follows after penny ! 

Is it the coin's too sordid touch 
Relaxes baby's gleeful clutch 

Or jolly-jointed jumble? 
The thought amuses Mammon much, 

When it should make him humble ; 

Love thinks she hears her darling say 

(And if he follow in that way 

143 



144 So7tgs for the Hour. 

His feet will never stumble), 

"Kiss me, and let the penny tumble." 



When Mammon grave, in mercy's guise, 
Stoops down where some starved infant lies 

To dole the dusky penny, 
Time hides the tear-drops in his eyes, 

And Mammon hasn't any; 
Fond Love is dead ; no merry kiss, 
Nor playful penny gone amiss, 

And never one too many — 

There's somehow pathos in a penny. 



To such as these Time's busy hands 
Show not his smiling, singing sands, 

Save only to embolden. 
With them for bread the penny stands, 

And not for pastime golden. 



The Penny. 145 

Oft trembling on starvation's brink, 
Time's golden grains sing sad, they think, 

Their hearts too early olden, 

And griefless death grows strangely 
golden ! 
1883. 



13 



SALT-WATER SONG. 

The sea is a city of shifting streets 

And constantly crumbling walls, 
And the dwellers therein are lithe athletes 

That laugh when a structure falls, 
With " a windy day," when its tottering towers 

Come tumbling about their ears — 
When their houses are shattered they say, *' It 
showers," 

And, levelled at length, " It clears," 

They halloo loud to Luna, 'tis all in her eye 
That she squanders her silver and gold 

To build on their lots, while she lives in the 
sky, 
But when would a woman be told ? 

They mock at the lady, and feigning to pout 

At the rocking roofs she rears, 
146 



Salt- Wafer Song: 147 

" Now hadn't she better put us all out, 
Or gather the rents in arrears," 

Then, shaking with laughter, exhort her to try 

Not to get full any more. 
When the rollicking winds come sweeping by 

And swallow the roofs with a roar, 
They ask how her man is, and why she looks 
wan, 

Is she coming to make repairs, 
And why don't the lady, if she has a man, 

Let him manage her vast affairs. 

Then the storm's golden trumpets strike up a 
tune 
And the nimble athletes a dance; 
And they ask him to join them,^-the " Man" 
of the Moon, — 
Who is ready to jump at the chance ! 



148 Songs for the Hour. 

'Mid melody soft as the voice of a dove, 
And music would shatter our ears, 

They waltz on the waves, and, falling in love, 
Dip down in it deep with their dears. 

The sea is a country vast and wild. 

With mountains that melt in mist, 
And valleys where never a flower has smiled, 

Except in a mermaid's fist ; 
But the dwellers therein are always cool, 

In country and city the same ; 
And if fretful man is a sweltering fool, 

He has none but himself to blame. 



THE JUDGE AND THE REF- 
EREE. 

(a comedy of careless punctuation.) 

They made me a referee 

In a land case uncommon long-winded, — 
An ill wind that blew a good fee, 

Because for a fee they contended. 

And I said to myself my report 
Is lucid, at least to my own mind, 

And when it goes up to the Court 

On the usual exceptions, though stone-blind. 

Dame Justice will see what I mean — 

But wit, too, is blinding by flashes, 

And a stroke of it might intervene, 

Should she lay the law down on my dashes. 
13* 149 



150 Songs for the Hour. 

And behold ! from my findings of fact 

The Judge found — when he looked at my 
dashes — 

The plaintiff possessed of the tract, 

And then follows his wit, with its flashes. 

" Possessed of the piece in dispute 
(What more could a plaintiff desire ?) 

At the time that he started the suit, 
And upwards of forty years prior !" 

Did it take me ten days to find out, 
With a cursory sort of digression, 

What the whole impish case was about. 
And who was in peaceful possession ? 

There were acres one hundred and three, — 
Perchance more altogether were aching 

To get a small slice of that fee, — 
And the title to three it was takmg. 



The Judge and the Referee. 151 

The plaintiff one hundred possessed ! 

But his deeds called for three in addition ! — 
He ought to be sorely distressed, 

But, dear Judge, I don't mean in perdition. 

I said what I meant, and I meant 

What I said, and I say that I said it ! 

It is not what I wrote I repent. 

But the cursory way that you read it. 

The defendant's attorney, he took 

Two days my dull mind to enlighten — 

Oh ! the fists, in my face, that he shook 
To inform me, you see, not to frighten. 

Now he claims my report is sent back 
That the case may again be gone over ! 

How the sides of old Laughter will crack 
When that bull gets again in the clover ! 



152 Songs for the Hour. 

But I think I can stand the attack — 
At ten dollars a day till it's ended ; 

To go up again and come back 

On a teeter like that is just splendid ! 

How fine to ascend and descend 
On that seesaw aforesaid astraddle ! 

With law points, to boot, at each end. 
And myself, as it were, in the saddle. 



THE DEMAND FOR MR. DEPEW. 

(Expected guest of the Wilkesbarre Eisteddfod.) 

Sons of Saint Patrick, hinder not his flight, 
Though laughter languish at your banquet-board ; 
His heart with every race in kind accord, 
His life a candle set on Freedom's height, — 
Love's hands must needs have lit so kind a light, 
For the oppressed its brightest rays out- 
poured, — 
The Welsh, your Celtic cousins, have implored 
Your frequent guest for just one glorious night. 

Let no man hinder him, nor time nor tide — 
He comes to hear a thousand nightingales, 
Singing as sweet as in their native Wales, 
Till, tasting heaven, his heart be satisfied; 
But what a hush among those matchless birds 
At Chauncey's silvery voice and golden words! 

March 9, 1892. 

153 



"LETHE, AND OTHER POEMS, 

I 8 8 2." 

(Lines written on the fly-leaf of a copy presented to the 
editor of the Boston Pilot in 1884.) 

With a long face I clung to this lachrymose 
maiden, 
Till we met in a mirth-making mirror, — not 
after ; 

Since she wouldn't be happy at all without 
Aiden, 
I have cast, in seclusion, my life-lot with 
Laughter. 

If the ghost of her here out of Lethe affright 
you, 

The end that she came to will doubtless de- 
light you. 

154 



"Lethe, and other Poems, 1882!' 155 

Some said here is trash, some called her a 
treasure, 
But a faintness afflicted the praises that fol- 
lowed ; 

She died, but had left me, I noted with pleas- 
ure, 
"The dust" on the shelf for the taffy I 
swallowed. 

I've a likeness or two left out of ten hun- 
dred, 

But why I had any all the wags wondered. 

One review that I read was a dismal death- 
notice, 
To an epitaph turning my dull dedica- 
tion; 
The beam in his eye that knows well where a 
mote is 
The critic consumed in her instant crema- 
tion. 



156 Songs for the Hour. 

And would sink in the Lethe he mortally- 
dreaded 

Me, the maiden, and all, for he snatched me 
bald-headed. 

But why send her picture to John Boyle 

O'Reilly, 
Who knows not, perhaps, that she ever 

existed ? 
" Why not?" says my second love, whispering slyly, 

" The smiles of O'Reilly cannot be resisted, 
For they straighten WTy faces and broad ones 

make brighter" — 
Here she goes, though his smiles should like 

scimitars smite her. 

For the first time we met when he came here 
canoeing. 
One moment with many admiring friends 
sharing. 



^' Lethe, and other Poems, 1882." 157 

When I felt in his glance were a dullard's un- 
doing, 
With a kind word " forninst" it the damage 
repairing ; 

So I mail my " remains" the crazed critic cre- 
mated, 

To let a true poet know how she was 
" trated." 



14 



SOME OF WYOMING'S SINGERS. 

TO DR J. T. DOYLE, 

Wit's millionaire and princely son of Song, 
Whose palace stands remote from public gaze, 
All lighted up with culture's brilliant blaze, 
In pleasure-grounds where Beauty's children 

throng, 
And troops of fairies dance, nor deem it wrong; 
Where Fancy's silvery fountain freely plays. 
While splendid dreams adorn its flowering 
ways, 
And Mirth keeps young, and Laughter hale and 
strong. 

The wit whose lightning, flashed from theme to 

theme. 

Lays the bald mount of borrowed troubles 

bare ; 
158 



Some of Wyoming's Singers. 159 

While humor lights life's deeps with steadier 
gleam ! 
But when, like moonlight flood and starlight 
fair, 
Their witching rays through Wisdom's case- 
ment stream, 
The Muses, spellbound, bid farewell to Care! 

TO THERON G. OSBORNE, 

The singer's heart ! the poet's speech ! 
No luscious thought beyond their reach. 

When Music spreads her wings ; 
And though the fruit too often be 
But cherries ripe on Fancy's tree 
(The bird we hear we seldom see), 

'Tis Philomel that sings ! 

But when this mood your heart enthralls, 
It seems as though the music falls 
For Beauty's sake alone; 



l6o Songs for the Hour. 

Your cherry-bird — the charming things! 
With topknot cute and colored wings — 
Drinks cherry wine and gayly sings, 
When Philomel has flown! 

TO JOHN S. McGROARTY. 

You sang at last so sweet a lay 

The Muse appeared before us, 
And fairer than for many a day 

The heavenly hills hung o'er us ! 
With you, so gentle in her mien, 

So frank and unassuming. 
Her pleasant smile and songful sheen 

Your every line illuming; 
Her shell harmonious, in your hand, 

Has such bright heart-tints in it 
That it reveals Truth's golden strand 

In one immortal minute! 



Some of Wyoming's Singers. i6i 

TO E. A. NIVEN. 
(Journalist.) 

His prose is a swift and beautiful stream, 

The Song of the Brook recalls, 
That dances along while others dream, 

And his songs are its water-falls ! 
With rapids here, and rapids there, 

For his muse's light canoe, 
Who rides clear over the rocks of care 

When her shell goes shooting through! 
Its shadow adrift in the shining tide. 

Till a cataract tumbles down. 
When his muse, refreshed with her reckless 
ride. 

Strolls off to the nearest town, 
With a twinkling smile, and a trace of tears, 

And the flowers she culled by the way; 
But before she departs a poem appears 

That has something new to say. 

July, 1892. 

/ 14* 



THE ROBIN'S LAUGH. 

When I listened to your laughing, 

Robin, 'mid the barren boughs. 
Then I heard remembered voices 

Ring through Love's deserted house, — 
Voices sweet and void of sorrow, 

E'en as musical as yours : 
Stay, blithe robin, lest I wrong you, 

Sounds like these the sad heart cures, 
Sweet as childhood's cheeriest laughter, 

That no end to living sees ! 
Ah ! you sing now, yet the song goes 

Laughing through the leafless trees. 

If friends smile and call it dreaming, 

That you laugh before you sing, — 
162 



The Robin's Laugh. 163 

Yes, and laugh half through the singing 

And its after-echoing, — 
Let them seek you out and listen, 

When they doubt the spring appears, 
And they'll say no sweeter laughter 

Ever fell through happy tears ! 
Yet of sadness, when you've ended, 

E'en the happiest inly seize; 
Robin, is not this the reason 

That you laugh through leafless trees? 



Oh ! Love's dwelling in the dingles 

Where the living laugh and sing, 
And the light about their faces 

Glad with glimpses of the spring! 
Where Love's voice is like the robin's. 

Rounded full and ripe with joy, 
Rich in spring-like revelations 

For the youngest girl or boy! 



164 Songs for the Hour. 

Ah, Love ! shall you hear in sadness 
Autumn's merry-making breeze? 

Then be this the only reason, 

That she laughs through leafless trees. 

April 19, 1884. 



A FINE DAY. 

The day was so fine it impelled me to say it, 
Thus adding new zest to the joy it con- 
ferred, — 

The new-born delight! 'twas a pleasure to 
weigh it 
On the scale of my voice with the weight of 
a word. 

Then on that of the friends whom I met on my 
way, 

With no scales on their eyes to discolor the 
day — 

Fine day ! Fine day ! 

It is true, in the foulest of weather I've 

said it — 

Who hasn't? ha! ha! and felt foolish enough, 

165 



1 66 Songs for the Hour. 

So different the day ! in my long face you read it, 
Yet your answer was fine when it should 

have been rough. 
" Fine day !" and I laughed as I went on my 

way, 
And you smiled as you thought, what a funny 

fine day! 

So vivacious I've been when the weather was 

vicious, 
My horizon so clear, though beclouded the 

sky, 
That I shouted " Fine day !" and the fun was 

delicious 
When your ear-drum had hoodwinked the 

lens of the eye; 
While you followed the hat the winds carried 

away. 
From the stand-point I took 'twas a very fine 

day ! 



A Fine Day. . i6y 

Too oft merely formal the day's salutations, 
Lacking . feeling and warmth, though the 
weather is fair; 

Weather-beaten must needs be our wise obser- 
vations. 
Yet one hearty " Good-morning !" may ward 
off despair. 

Pleasant looks lend a charm to the least words 
we say; 

It takes more than the weather to make a fine 
day. 

So fine was that day when your fair one re- 
sponded. 
Which the fairer you knew not, the day or 
the maid ! 
With the drift of your speech the mild May- 
winds absconded, 
But the flower that she tossed you never shall 
fade. 



1 68 Songs for the Hour. 

Your "Fine day!" the May-winds caught up in 

their play; 
'Twas the smile on her lips that perfected the 

day! 

Fine day, ever fair in fond memory's keeping, — 
The day-old delight that you weighed with a 
word! 

And now it is May with her merry eyes heap- 
ing 
Bright smiles on your head for the praise you 
conferred. 

Then still keep repeating " Fine day !" and " Fine 
day !"— 

The young, joyous June is the next one to 
weigh ! 

Good-day ! Good-day ! 



THE HOLY CHILD. 

From lost Eden down the Seasons Four 

Had dreamed of the Holy Child ; 
Spring caught His smile in the dream's sweet 

core, 
And in her heart hid it for evermore ; 
And her face thenceforth a sweeter look wore, 

And her spirit grew gentle and mild. 
Every tree she touched broke out in blossoms 

That bloomed with a tenderer grace ; 
And a myriad bowers bared their white bosoms 

To make Him a resting-place ! 

From the Promise down the Seasons Four 

Had dreamed of the Birth Divine ; 

And Summer found, in the dream's deep core, 

The Heart of her heart for evermore ; 
H 15 169 



170 Songs for the Hour. 

And redder thenceforth the roses she wore, 
And richer the fruit of the vine ! 

Then, flushed with the dream, round her pur- 
pie throne 
Her gifts of gold up-piled ! 

The royal honor seemed hers alone, 
To herald the Holy Child ! 

Through long ages dim the Seasons Four 

Had dreamed of His natal hour ; 
And Autumn saw, in her sad dream's core, 
The glorified look the young Child wore. 
Though a dying heart in His bosom He bore. 
And in her heart hid it for evermore 

In fading leaf and flower. 
On flower and leaf a crimson glow 

Life out of death foretold ! 
And she said, " If He come ere winter winds 
blow, 

I will weave Him a crown of gold." 



The Holy Child. 171 

Down to His coming the Seasons Four 

Had dwelt on the Birth Divine ; 
Winter heard His voice when the dream was o'er, 
And echoed its music for evermore. 
And whiter thenceforth seemed the raiment she 
wore, 

And she cried, " The honor is mine : 
I see His bright star through the frosty air 

' gleam. 

Bending o'er Him, feel His warm breath ; 
And deep in my bosom I treasure the dream. 

Who had been the herald of Death." 



Oh, heart of Winter with rapture thrilled. 
Thy dream, the first, came true ! 

With whitened locks the Seers of eld 

The Blessed Babe in their arms had held ; 

But the human heart 'gainst the dream rebelled 
And the Lord of Glory slew ! 



1/2 Songs for the Hour. 

Wise men of the East ! how your golden gifts 
glow 
In the light of Bethlehem's star ! 
As we carry bright gifts to our babes, through 
the snow, 
Is its radiance near or far? 

December 22, 1881. 



MEMORIAL ODE. 

(Read before the G. A. R. Post of Wilkesbarre, May 30, 1882.) 

The soldier's path, 'mid Hope's flushed flowers 
beginning, 
Ends here among the roses Love has strewn ; 
But then what lay between was worth the win- 
ning, 
Though like Gehenna groaned the gory way 
That led him to these tinted tents of May, 
And hence and upward to the fragrant camps 
of June — 

And higher still t'wards Nature's highest 

heaven, 

Where light and sound the perfect day do 

make. 

15* ^73 



174 Songs for the Hour. 

Oh, happy slumberer! to thee 'tis given 

To he on Summer's heart and take thy rest, 

Whether, like thee, in snow-white garment 

dressed 
For sleep, or watching 'mid the flowers till 

thou awake ! 

How like the mother, in her youthful beauty, 
She folds thee to her warm, sweet-smelling 
breast ! 
No longer thine to do a soldier's duty, 
Helpless and happy here as any child, 
To dreamland fair by countless blooms be- 
guiled. 
And all earth's sweets are thine without the 
weary quest ! 

But now do we, who have not yet divided 
The deep, dark waves that gave thee back 
thy youth. 



Memorial Ode. 175 

Look o'er the waters where thy spirit glided 
So like a dream unto this flowering shore 
Where merry voices ring for evermore, 

Like children's voices, like thine own in sooth ! 



And some, thy friends who strayed with thee 

in childhood 
So oft these very burial-grounds among, 
The golden meadows and the echoing wildwood, 
With step like that of youth fresh garlands 

bring, 
Bright as thine own hands wove in pleasant 

Spring, 
Till these old hearts of ours grow soft again 

and young. 

Now far from us as thee, the noise of battle ! 

Like babes upon a holiday at last 
War's visage dim we scan, the cannon's rattle 



176 Songs for the Hour. 

Like them in wonder hear, — so old is peace ! 
This is not dotage, — 'tis the heart's release 
From the long bondage of the grim and 
gloomy Past ! 

Gray veterans here there be, who carry flowers, — 
Would weep with strange delight if they 
might see 
In vast array the hosts that once were ours ! 
Hailing once more in many a doubtful fight 
The boys that saved the day, then sank from 
sight,— 
Would toss their hands and shout for joy 
hilariously. 

Oh, Peace ! what blessed boon is this you 

brought them 
That took the cruel sting of war away ? 
What charms Lethean, these you kindly 

wrought them 



Memorial Ode. 177 

So well to heal the wounds that war had 

made? 
Oh, Peace ! these hearts, once Sorrow's, dost 

pervade, 
What golden vistas down the Nation's larger 

day ! 

As May's white blossoms hide the hurts stern 

Winter 
Inflicted on the tempest-conquering trees. 
That, like a cavalcade of heroes, enter 
The rich realms where May was crowned 

Queen ; 
As earth's deep wounds are covered o'er with 

green, 
Your deathless deeds, O dead ! and fadeless 

victories, 

A brightening wilderness of blooms and glories. 
Loom up between us and the wrecks of war 



178 Songs for the Hour. 

And though we cherish still its touching stories, 
Now, almost like romance, your sufferings 

seem 
The blessed memories of a painful dream, 
Whose pain has given us Peace, as night the 

Morning Star! 

Whose pangs have brought us joy, as night 
the golden morning ; 
For not less brightly hath Aurora smiled. 
That, as the legend saith, for her adorning 
She stole full many a rosy child away ; 
Nor Peace less bright, we cannot find to- 
day 
The flower of Chivalry unto her dawn beguiled ! 

Time hides the crimson of the cannonading, 

The imperial purple death did then display ! 
And war's red memories, faded now or fading. 



Memorial Ode. 179 

Have yielded to the golden crown of Peace. 
Let not her hopes, the while her powers 

increase, 
Like golden apples turn to ashes cold and 

gray! 

But living soldiers, not the less we love you ; 
Death yet denies you glory's tear-dewed 
wreath ; 
Nor less ye love the Flag that soared above 

you, 
It firm refused to be your battle-shroud ! — 
Of this, surviving heroes, we are proud. 

That Freedom's flowers blow fairer for your 
loving breath! 

Your voices, mingled with the battle's thunder 

And feeble farewells of the dying brave. 
Your hearts, that heard their heart-strings 
break asunder, 



i8o Songs for the Hour. 

Your hands, that clasped the hands that saved 

the day, 
Your hands, that brought back laurels from 

the fray, 
Are needed the rich fruits of conflict yet to 

save ! 

Then let the buried dead again be buried 

Full deep beneath the flowers of Love and 
Peace ! 
Not as in war, when funeraL rites were hurried, 
But thoughtfully, and lovingly, and slow; 
Ye have more time than in the long ago 

To scatter flowers, less cause the tear-drop to 
release ! 

Spare not the sweetest rose, the tenderest 
blossom 
Fond Nature into being ever fanned ! 
For martial garb she round each hero's bosom 



Memorial Ode. i8i 

Her " coat of many colors" loves to fold, 
Helmeted with the daisy's sacred gold, 
To dull the darts that fly from Time's relent- 
less hand ! 

Sleep well beneath Columbia's starry skies ! 

Your fame wath hers coequal shall increase. 
Ye soldier dead ! Oh, may your sacrifice 

To deeds as grand, our souls . bestir, in peril- 
ous peace ! 



i6 



THE VANISHED MAIDEN. 

The gold in the sky was burning, 

As I walked one eve by the sea, 
And the lustre it shed was turning 

All things into gold but me ; 
For wrapped in a mantle of sorrow, 

I was proof 'gainst the beautiful change. 
And my soul was unable to borrow 

That glory so silent and strange. 

But soon, with a music enchanted, 

That rose from the shells on the shore, 

With a phantom of joy I was haunted, 
And I heard her soft whisper once more, 

The voice of my own vanished maiden, 
Buried deep in the caves of the sea. 

And my soul then sighed for her Aiden, 

And fluttered — with her to be free ! 
182 



The Vanished Maiden. 183 

The music increased, and the billows 

Fell back into deep repose, 
With white tranquil foam for their pillows. 

When a form from the waters arose ; 
'Twas the form of my long-lost maiden, 

Buried deep in the caves of the sea, 
Whose soul had returned from her Aiden 

To talk for one moment with me. 

" Let grief from your bosom be banished, 

Be happy on earth for awhile. 
For soon the maid that has vanished 

Will welcome you there with a smile. 
Where the gold in the sky is burning, 

And whence we shall look on the waves. 
While the lustre that's shed is turning 

All things into gold but our graves." 

July 21, 1879. 



GOD AND THE SEA. 

"And his weary eyes welcome the sight of the sea." — Blaine's 
Despatch. 

From th^at death-haunted chamber they solemnly 
bore him, 
To die in their arms it might be ! 
But strong-winged angels flew seaward before 

him, 
To move the great heart of the deep to restore him, 
Rouse, nourish, and rest him, breathe through 
him and o'er him 
The blood-thrilling balm of the sea, — 
The life-giving breath and the strength of 
the sea. 

Stern Science grew motherly, thoughtful, and 

tender 

As his own loving mother might be ! 
184 



God atid the Sea. 185 

And day and night pondered how best she 

could render 
Assistance, so naught merely human would 

hinder 
The brave heart in that body so pallid and 
slender 
From sounding its thanks to the sea, — 
From trilling its drum-beats of joy by the 
sea. 



The face of young Autumn was flushed as with 
fever, 
And crimson as Summer's might be ! 

And her touch was so scorching they scarce 
could believe her 

Sweet Autumn to be ; yet she was no de- 
ceiver, — 

Our burden of sorrow seemed greatly to grieve 

her, 

16* 



1 86 Songs for the Hour. 

And she raved in that run to the sea ; 
But at sunset she smiled, — the fair bride of 
the sea ! 



That day through fair Autumn's delusion he 
dallies 
With dreams of a blessing to be ! 
Though nature is drooping, the President ral- 
lies, 
And they run a rapider rate through the val- 
leys, 
And the good engine glides down the hill-tops 
and sallies 
Forth of woodlands, fast nearing the sea. 
Till " his weary eyes welcome the sight of 
the sea." 



Yet gently and tenderly thither they bore him ; 
To die was not heaven's decree, 



God and the Sea. 187 

For the swift-winged angels flew seaward before 

him, 
And stirred the great heart of the deep to re- 
store him, 
Nurse, nourish, and rest him, breathe through 
him and o'er him 
The hfe-giving breath of the sea. 
And he gains ! by the grace of our God and 
His sea ! 

September 9, 1881. 



AT GARFIELD'S GRAVE. 

Beneath that grand triumphal arch the night, 
O'erlaid with fading stars in lieu of flowers, 
Fit tokens of this fleeting life of ours, 

A warrior passed, so altered to the sight, 

Men said had won a world in valiant fight ; 
When a voice answered from the King's high 

towers : 
•'Two worlds hath won, the wreck of Eden's 
bowers 

And the new Eden death can never smite." 



Tall archways, eloquent with flowers, arise ; 

. Triumphal music beats its anguished breast, 
i88 



At Garfield's Grave. 189 

Then breathes a requiem caught from sacred 

choirs ; 
Kind eyes look out, like stars, from sorrow's 

skies, 
And pour their love-light round his place 

of rest. 
Sweet starlight left of Eden's lingering fires ! 

September 28, 1881. 



LOVE'S WOUNDS, 

Life the first-born of Eden's bowers, Death 
last, 
And Love that came between, — mysterious 

Three ! 
O Life and Death, at last on which of ye 
Shall blame of Love's unkindest hurts be 

cast? 
All healed then, and every sorrow passed, 
Whose pitying hand, whose balsam-dropping 

tree 
Left for those wounds and all that misery 
The sweetest cordial ? Death's the icono- 
clast ? 
O Life, I fear Love at the last will say 

That thou, not Death, did most severely 

smite ! 
190 



Love's Wounds. 191 

And tell how, when he faint and bleeding lay- 
By Time's roadside, Death softened at the 

sight, 
And decently enwrapping him in white, 

Took all the soreness from his wounds away. 

February 22, 1882. 



BURIED LOVE'S EPITAPH. 

Kind words, warm as Love's heart, Love's 

living breath. 

In marble cold and white ! A subtle flame 

Within whose charmed circle one dear name 

Defieth the devouring jaws of Death ! 

Not heeding what the night wind muttereth, 

Smiling through storm and sunshine just the 

same, 

In this lone shelter, more secure than fame. 

Content with what surviving Love's heart 

saith. 

The marble's time-swept snow may drift away. 

Or mingle with the dust that sleeps below ; 

But in its stead sweet flowers shall rise, and so 

Suggest the fragrance of her name, decay 
192 



Buried Love's Epitaph. 193 

Can never touch, and when the last flower 

dies, 
Heaven will reveal Love's name. Love's voice, 

Love's eyes ! . 

February 2, 1882. 



17 



THE RICH AND THE SUFFER- 
ING. 

Has she, indeed, red rose so fresh and fair, 

Journeyed far up the valley of the night 
Unto these purpling hills of morn ? Is there 

No faintness in thy heart and on thy 
sight ? 
Is't fear, still lingering, makes thee tremble so ; 

This flush a vaporish fever in thy blood ? 
Nay, nay, it was the breeze. Why, do you 
know 

I feel as bright as any new-blown bud. 

Yet couldst thou tell what thou hast seen and 

heard : 

What grim and ghastly shapes beset thy 

way, 
194 



The Rich and the Suffering. 195 

What moanings in the dark, no pity stirred, 
What voices praying for the dawn of day ! 
I fear the joy thy greeting now bestows 
Would turn to pain, though passing fair thou 
be, rich rose ! 

June 13, 1881. 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

What birds, the bards of air, in singing say, 
Whisper the roses, and his ruddy Muse, 

When poets born behold the break of day, 
Music, hke manna, mingles with the dews. 



Exhaling, as the measures grow in might. 
This early fragrance from the fields of song ; 

How have we quaffed its lyrical delight. 
His fancy's goodly company among ! 

How reddened all the East of our desire 

With song-beams from this singer's glowing 

breast ! 

A grateful age will greet whose fadeless fire 

In gleams of gold athwart its fadeless West. 
196 



Henry W. Longfellow. 197 

The wilds of nature, when his music came, 
Hailed in its sheen their mysteries unveiled ; 

While woods and waters, and their hosts, by- 
name. 
And all the winds, its shaping spirit hailed. 

It lures some peeping glory from a star, 
Shows deeper pathos in a pining flower. 

And, like a leaven of all sweet sounds there are, 
Imbues with rapture many a lonely hour. 

Poems pure as the dreams of Paradise 

Fair innocence finds lingering in her heart. 

The sun's white hands that bathe her waking 
eyes. 
The gifts they bring, the color they impart. 

Whose death-defying harmony inspires 

A listener's throb of triumph in one's breast ; 
And imagery refulgent as the fires 

The poet-sun transfigures in the West. 

17* 



198 Songs for the Hour. 

As when of old had vanished all the dews, 
The manna and its memory yet remained ; 

The first fresh flush of fancy loath to lose, 
What treasures hath this faithful singer 
gained ! 

What treasures on his fellows hath bestowed ! 

And not the lays alone for which we yearned. 
But when the suns were set that on them 
glowed, 
The strength imparted and the lessons 
learned. 

Filled with a melody, the Golden Rule 
Is waking in the world, beside his own ; 

He breathes more beauty on the beautiful, 
Or leaves new loveliness where it had flown. 

His tender songs stir pity's fount of tears. 
Griefs bursting drops of balm break out 
between, 



Henry IV. Longfellow. 199 

As sunshine in an April shower appears, 
To turn the wastes of winter into green. 

A guide by journeyings heavenward glorified ! 

Pointing to cold and sullen steeps, that freeze 
Ambition's breath, leads, down the mountain- 
side, 
Where summer strives for Summer's purple 
ease. 

Held by her sun-browned hand, and not a 
dream, 

A golden ladder leans against the sky, 
And joins two worlds which very distant seem 

Until the bright ascent our spirits try. 

Poesy, radiant in the twilight dim 

That on the longest life comes unawares. 

At night will give good angels charge of him 
Whose earthly harp so much resembles theirs. 



200 Songs for the Hour. 

But oh ! while yet the hues of eve remain, 
Silence may sepulchre some matchless ode ; 

The fragment of a psalm, one sweet refrain, 
If heard, her heart with joy were overflowed. 

Ultima Thule his moist eyes have descried, 
Its quiet voices echo to his quest — 

Sad sounds, like farewells, in his last songs tide 
Soft to her saddened soul the poet's sigh for 
rest. 

February 14, 1881. 



THE VISION OF COLUMBUS. 

Is that fire on the dark horizon reflected from 
land or sea ? 

A will-o'-the-wisp of the waters or the glory- 
about to be ? 

A sudden enchantment falls on a sleepless and 
watchful crew ; 

Yet twice had they shouted " Land !" with never 
a shore in view. 

Columbus kneels in his cabin, his soul in thanks 

outpoured 
For the vision that comes to the victor, and 

a sign vouchsafed by the Lord. 
Had he seen in the midnight glimmer of a 

sleep-enveloped strand 
The smile of his life's ideal, with a crucifix in 

her hand ? 



202 Songs for the Hour. 

Could it be that his soul's beloved, the be- 
trothed of a deathless dream, 

Had caught from her outermost Eden his cara- 
vels' distant gleam ? 

But as yet not one of the doubters of a day 
or two before 

Has demanded the velvet doublet, as the first 
to descry the shore. 

And whence that shadowy splendor, with a cry 

of " Land !" on his lips, 
Like the gleam of Isabel's jewels in the midst 

of the booming ships ? 
Can it be the spirit of Isabel, the form of his 

royal friend, 
In the jewels of joy resplendent, in a dream of 

his journey's end ? 

He knows that once in the voyage her shadow 
shimmered between 



The Vision of Columbus. 203 

The blades of a crew rebellious and the friend 
of the Spanish queen. 

The veil from the dark sea lifted, its ghostly 
gulf explored ! 

The dragon of Superstition pierced by Dis- 
covery's sword ! 

He has waged and won the battle that waited 

a thousand years 
For its Genoese commander and. the gleam of 

its Spanish spears. 
He has seen all the shadows of fear from the 

island of Ferro flee, 
And the wounded roc fall limp in the sweep 

of a wider sea ; 

The dreams that are medieval, like the mists 

of night, dissolve 
In the swirl of the smiling waters when the 

world begins to revolve ! 



204 Songs for the Hour. 

He has waged and won the battle, in the face 

of forlorn surprise, 
In the menace of murderous madness that 

glared from a hundred eyes. 

In the face of swords that pointed to soundings 

that tell no tales, — 
With the faith that overcometh and the courage 

that never fails ! 
With a faith whose glance auroral his men to 

themselves revealed, 
With the truth that the victory winneth when 

Rescue has fled the field : 

With a faith, in the climax of terror, that stood 

for those trembling tars 
In imminent stead for the comfort that fled 

from the sun and the stars ! 
Every man of his crew forgiven for a menace 

of more than death, 



The Visioji of Columbus. 205 

For they sailed, by the chart of Columbus and 
the Trade-wind's bewildering breath, 

At a speed whose persistence appalled them, 
'neath a canopy far too fair, 

Its sunrise the doom of the dreamer, its sun- 
set the dream of despair ! 

Sailing on forever, they feared, with a menace 
in every mile, 

On a sea with a face as smooth as its dragon's 
reflected smile ; 

Inspired by the man they hated, losing heart 
but to hate him the more ; 

His will, like the winds that drove them, 
whether shipwreck ! or sea ! or shore ! 

His will, like the winds that held them, head- 
ing away to the West, 

Uniform, constant, and changeless as the love 

in a father's breast. 
18 



2o6 Songs for the Hour. 

Had he heard in that midnight vision, in a 

moment of joy profound, 
The ghost of the Inquisition confess that the 

earth is round ? 
Did he see on the brow of Arragon the shadow 

of lasting regret. 
To be found in a time of trouble the friend 

who would fain forget ? 

The look of ineffable rapture on the features of 

proud Castile, 
To find the ocean furrowed by Christianity's 

faithful keel ? 
Was John of Portugal present, with the mien 

of a moody king. 
To write on the chart of Columbus " Remorse" 

with his royal ring ? 

Remorse for the terms rejected, the treasures 
he lost for aye ! 



Tiie Vision of Columbus. 207 

The ten years lost to Columbus, and a waiting 

world's delay ! 
" Ha ! ha !" cry the coming squadrons, hidalgos 

in quest of gold, 
On highways, for ages dreaded, where the 

waves of the dark sea rolled ! 

To Genoa's foremost freeman, commissioned of 
God and Spain, 

Did the skies' starry Dream of Columbia shed 
more splendor than man could explain ? 

In the vision vouchsafed the victor who nobly 
fulfils his vow 

Could he see the centuries wreathing the fade- 
less leaf for his brow ? 

Had he touched on the time enchanted when 
childhood lisped his name, 

And Isabel's friend, Columbus, every school- 
boy's hero became ? 



2o8 So7igs for the Hour. 

Had he noted the compass he conquered, the 
needle he shaped to his mind, 

In a tremor of precious rapture for the paths 
that were yet to find ? 

It matters not who the finders; for the least 

and the greatest of these, 
From the world that is round, he has wrested 

the secrets of all the seas ! 
But in lieu of his princely titles behold his 

fame assured 
In the unwritten terms of the treaty and the 

treasures that Time secured ! 

What a lesson his pageant teaches, whose 

triumph was far too brief! 
What a picture of greatness shrouded in the 

shadows of shame and grief! 
But lo ! when the fetters were stricken from 

Isabel's faithful friend, 



TJic Vision of Columbus. 209 

What a symbol for progress and freedom and 
the triumph of truth in the end ! 

The ages to come will bless him, as ages gone 

by have blessed, 
For the wealth the world has discovered with 

his Eastern wand in the West ! 
For the wand that borrowed its magic from his 

dazzling dream of the East, 
Till the dawn of knowledge deepened and the 

wisdom of men increased ! 

P'air, phantom sail Santa Maria, forerunner of 
Liberty's ships. 

Usher in the Columbian Era, with thy cap- 
tain's cry on its lips ! 

Let the realms that the Pinta announces re- 
spond to Humanity's Dream, 

Till the Nina, the need of the nations, has an- 
chored in Liberty's Stream. 

Octoljer 10 and 11, 1S92. 

o iS* 



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